


Trust Falls

by Kate_Monster



Category: The OA (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Monster/pseuds/Kate_Monster
Summary: Homer Roberts wants to fix everything, but some problems are more complicated than he expects.A story that reveals what we missed at the Melanu Clinic, and who is the real hero of the OA’s second dimension.Now complete!





	1. The Tower

The day after the carbon monoxide incident, I wake up to something I’ve never seen before - a text message from Percy, at 5:30 AM, telling me to take the day off. 

For a moment, I’m anxious about what they’ll say over at the hospital. I fire off a rapid series of texts insisting that I’m cleared medically and expected to be at work, but he’s persistent. Finally, I give up.

You don’t tell Hunter Percy what to do. I learned that early on in my clinical rotations. 

I should study, or maybe work on my research project, but something in my body is restless this morning. Anxious. It wants to be outside. It wants to move. Not just my regular exercise routine, but to travel. This thing inside me wants to be _ free_. I need something, something essential, but I don't know what. 

I’ll have to search for it. 

I shower and microwave a breakfast burrito and pull on jeans and an old college sweatshirt before leaving my apartment. I travel downtown and start walking, up and down the hills of San Francisco, passing all the strange shops and stranger people, not sure what I’m looking for. I wander until I find myself at the bottom of the Filbert Street stairs, and then I _ know _ what it is I need to do. It’s always been on my bucket list, and something in my body is urging me, _ now. Do it now. _Today’s the day.

I hike up the steep hill, climbing past manicured backyards and covert gardens and flocks of screaming wild parrots until I reach the base of Coit Tower. A few bucks, some art deco murals, and an elevator ride later, and the entire city of San Francisco, California stretches out before me. 

I squint out the window at the view. I stare out as far as I can and laugh out loud. This city is amazing. The bay, it’s incredible. The sun is breaking through the clouds, for a few minutes at least, and sparkles of gold fleck and flicker along the water. I can hear the birds still screaming somewhere below me. I want to scream with them. So much open space. So much possibility. 

I spend too much time locked inside buildings and rooms. Even spending my clinical year on an island in the middle of the water, I’m still a complete recluse. There’s so much air and light out here. I’ve missed it all. Didn’t I leave Missouri in the first place because I wanted to enjoy everything a city on the coast has to offer? I never saw the ocean until medical school, but even now, my head is still buried in residency and books and research. I may as well have never left the farm. 

I want to be the best doctor I can be, but I also want to _ live_. 

Is it possible to do both? 

I linger at the top of the tower for a long time, maybe an hour, settling in front of a window and ignoring the tourists. Treasure Island glistens in the distance. The Melanu clinic looks so small from here. 

It could just as easily have been me waking up with hands pressing my windpipe, cutting off my air. Nothing in our line of work is ever safe or predictable. 

Scott Brown has always been compliant with treatment. He’s acrimonious, but gentle in his own way. The guy’s never had a violent bone in his body that we know of. He’s the last patient I would have expected to do something like that. Nothing in his history would give anyone reason to be cautious around him. 

What went wrong? Did we fail him somehow? Did we miss something? Did I fail Dr. Percy? 

I’m struck by the sudden desire to figure this out. To put the missing pieces of the puzzle together. To solve the mystery that is Scott’s unpredictable explosion of aggression. Can I get to the bottom of it? Can I save him? 

Can I _ fix _ this? 

I feel a flutter in my chest at the question, and with that, I know. This is what I was meant to do. This is why I went into this work. To understand the Scott Browns of the world, and try to help them. 

I pull up Percy’s number in my contact list as I ride down from the tower on the 39 bus.

“Oh. Homer. How are you feeling?”

“Me? What about you? Are you okay?”

“Never been better. You’re coming in when? Tomorrow morning?”

“No,” I say. “I’m going on nights next week, remember?”

“Right,” he says. “Of course.”

“How are the patients from yesterday’s afternoon group? Any lingering after effects?”

“From the carbon monoxide? No, no. Everyone seems fine.”

“What’s going on with Scott?”

“We’ve got him in isolation today. Cooling him down.”

“But did he say anything about what happened?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t think anyone’s spoken to him.”

Isolation. There must be something else he’s not telling me. “You mean he hasn’t gotten his session today?” 

“What?” he asks, surprised. “You think that’s appropriate? After yesterday?”

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him. There needs to be some kind of assessment, right?”

“He needs to see that he can’t get his way by acting out.”

That’s not how we’ve approached these situations in the past. Could Percy be experiencing some minor trauma from yesterday’s incident himself? I can’t say that out loud, of course, but still, I can tell that I need to control the situation. “I’ll come in and do a session with him.”

“I see. You’re going to tell me what to do about patient care.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, feeling abashed. “I didn’t mean-“

“Let’s talk about it when you’re back on days next week,” he says, softening.

“No. I’m coming in,” I say. The bus pulls up to a stop and I leap off. “Today.”

“Homer. We already discussed this.”

“He needs to talk to someone.” It’s not right to lock him up without assessing him more fully. I’m not going to say that out loud, not right now, but I know it’s true.

“Or, we can let him cool off, and continue his treatment plan with the regular schedule starting tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there in a few,” I say, and then I do something I never thought I’d do, and hang up on Dr. Percy. He calls me right back, but I don’t answer, letting it go to voicemail. I keep checking the phone as I climb into my Lyft, but he doesn’t leave a voicemail, and he doesn’t call again.

Instead, he greets me at the nurses’ station when I walk in. “You’re not even dressed properly for work,” he says coolly.

_ Now _ he’s going to enforce the dress code? Percy has always made a big deal about his preference for a relaxed dress code at Melanu. He feels like it contributes to a healing environment. “I’m not in violation,” I point out, which is true. Normally I still wouldn’t wear a college sweatshirt to clinic, but there’s nothing in his rules preventing it. I know all his rules.

“Do you have anything on underneath that?”

“It’s cold in here.”

“Homer.” 

With a sigh, I tear the sweatshirt off, revealing the UCSF t-shirt I tugged on this morning. It’s really no better, but it earns his approving nod. 

He rubs his beard. “I still don’t think you should see Scott Brown today,” he says. “I did check on him while you were on your way. I think he’s experiencing a major setback.”

“Let me try, then,” I press. “What’s he saying?”

“Not much of anything that makes sense, truthfully...” 

“You’re not gonna tell him?” Darmi interrupts from behind him. We both turn around to look at her.

“Tell me what?” I look back at Dr. Percy.

He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I just don’t think-“

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I insist. “What are you not saying?”

“He’s asking for you,” Darmi says, leaning around from where Percy is trying to stand between us so I can’t see her. “He’s refusing to talk to anyone else. Shweta went in there. He gave her the silent treatment.”

I turn back to Percy. “Is that true?” I demand. 

“There are some updates to his chart you should see. His hold has been switched to involuntary because of yesterday’s episode.”

“It has?” I ask in surprise. “We haven’t even assessed what happened and why. There were a lot of factors yesterday. It could have been the carbon monoxide.”

“Aggression isn’t a side effect of carbon monoxide poisoning,” Dr. Percy points out. His voice is unusually stern. “This is all just a precaution until we know more.”

I nod slowly, processing this. “So then we still need to do a fuller evaluation. Someone he’ll talk to.” 

“Maybe next week. For now, I’m going to sign off on some progress notes, and you should get out there and enjoy your day off.” He smiles at me and I nod my agreement. He heads for the stairs to his office and I wait until he’s gone. 

“I’m checking on Scott,” I say to Darmi. “Can you call one of the BHAs for backup?”

“He told you to leave.” She gives me a look. Her you-know-you-could-get-in-trouble look. Usually when she uses it, it’s not directed at me. I’m usually backing her up.

“Do you think he’s acting weird?”

“Scott?” she asks. “I mean, he attacked Percy, that was weird.”

“No. Him.” I glance back at the stairs.

“Percy?” She leans back in her chair. “Always.”

“I think he might still be shaken up from the incident.”

“Well, if you’re gonna disobey his directions and he catches you, it’s your funeral. I’ll call Todd.”

“Thanks.” That’s all I needed from her. I walk down to the patient rooms. The air is chilly, and I pull my sweatshirt back on. What Percy doesn’t know won’t kill him.

I stop outside Rachel DeGrasso’s room and peer through the window. She’s curled on her bed, her face pressed to her knees, trembling. Crying. She’s upset. I look up and down the hall. It’s empty. No staff in sight. I walk back down the hall to Darmi’s desk.

“What’s wrong with DeGrasso?” 

She shrugs. “She’s been like that all day,” she says apologetically. “Not eating. Hasn’t slept all night, either.”

“She hasn’t slept or eaten since the carbon monoxide?” I repeat, astonished. “What did Percy say about it?”

“Said to give her some space and leave her to calm down.”

Everything he’s doing goes against protocols today, and I don’t understand why. “Can I see her chart?” 

Darmi clicks into it and I immediately check the medication record. My jaw drops. “Are we trying to calm her down, or knock her out?”

Darmi shrugs. “Guess she’s fighting something off?”

“No kidding. Has anyone taken her to the sensory room?”

“Not yet.”

“See if someone can come and get her for a session,” I say sternly. 

“You’re gonna put that in her chart?” Darmi asks, dubiously. “Under your name?”

I can defend it if Percy asks. He didn’t tell me not to. “I’ll go do it right now.”

I close the record and head back down the hall, determined, for Rachel’s room. I open her door and she looks up. She wipes hurriedly at her eyes and stares at me, eyes wide, like she’s looking at a ghost. 

“Rachel?” I ask. I put on my gentle therapist face. “Hey there. Heard you’re not feeling so great. Do you want to try to eat?” I make the sign for food. “Eat?”

She’s still staring directly at my chest. 

“You should sleep,” I say, and make another sign and point to the pillow. “Sleep?”

She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a garbled cry. She reaches for my shirt, but I pull away, gently moving her hands down by her side. 

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, that’s enough, Rachel.” I spot Todd in the hallway. “We’re gonna get you to sensory in a bit. Okay?” I smile gently at her. “We’ll help you through this.” She sits back on the bed, defeated, and I step out of the room to follow Todd to Scott’s room.

I look through the window before we open it. He’s pacing in the corner, his arms folded. He looks tense. Agitated. I’ve never seen him like this before. Todd opens the door and Scott whirls around.

“Jesus,” he whispers, taking me in. 

“No,” I say. “It’s just Dr. Roberts.” I smile, hoping that he’ll get the joke, but his face looks whiter than Rachel’s.

Scott looks to Todd and back to me. “So… I guess you and me talkin’ alone ain’t an option right now, huh?” 

“You want Todd to wait outside?”

“Can he?”

I look at Todd, who looks skeptical, but I nod. “Just give us a few,” I say. I know Todd will stay close enough that I can signal for him if I need him, plus I have the panic button hidden under my ID badge if Scott does anything unexpected.

The door closes. “That shirt,” Scott says, his voice shaking slightly. “Tryin’ to tell me somethin’, I hope?”

“What do you mean?”

He closes his eyes. “_Fuck._”

“How are you feeling today?”

“Nauseous,” he says. He eyes my shirt. “And pissed.”

“Can you tell me why you’re here?”

He laughs bitterly. “Ain’t that the real question?”

“What can you tell me about yesterday?” I lean against the door, trying to be as non-threatening as I can.

He sits down on his bed. “All I know is, I woke up here yesterday, ears ringin’, and that alarm goin’ off.”

“What about before that?”

He studies my face, like he’s looking for something he doesn’t see. “Remind me what happened before that.”

“We were in group. Talking about your hopes for the future.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why did you attack the doctor?”

“I’m more interested in why you didn’t help.”

“What do you mean?” 

“How do you think I got here?” Scott asks me suddenly.

“Well,” I say slowly. “From what I understand, your coworkers said you started telling them about talking fish, somewhere in the bay. You thought there were puzzles everywhere, just for you. You stopped taking care of yourself. They were concerned about you.”

“About me?” he repeats, dubious.

“Yup.”

He nods slowly, processing this, then looks back at me. “Family?”

“We don’t have any listed for you.”

“Got it,” he muses. “Sounds about right. So then how do I get outta here?”

“You mean the clinic?”

“Well, at this precise moment, I just mean this isolation situation, cause it ain’t exactly helpin’ my state of mind.”

He’s so calm and rational right now. The more he opens up to me, the less agitated he seems. I don’t want to disturb that. Does he really belong in here? What will he say if I try to tell him he does? 

I glance sideways at the door, wondering how far away Todd is. My fingers twitch towards the button. 

“I know it’s different. But we need to be able to show you’re not a danger, to yourself or-“

But before I can finish my sentence, there’s a commotion at his door. I spin around. Rachel DeGrasso is launching herself at his window, fists beating against the glass, tears streaming down her face, bawling incoherently. Todd and another BHA, Janice, stand on either side of her, unsure what to do. 

When I turn back, Scott has risen to his feet. He looks back and forth from me to the door. I can see the strain on his face. He looks pale, but still calm. “She wants to get in. That’s all.”

“Sorry,” I say. “She’s having a tough day.”

“Hell yeah, she is,” he mutters. “Can’t she come in? Please? Just for a few minutes.”

“Probably not the best idea right now.”

“Why not?” he presses.

“Scott.” I lower my voice, knowing that what I’m about to say might upset him, so I channel as much reassurance as I can without sounding patronizing. “I still don’t understand who you thought you were attacking yesterday. I don’t know if you’re a danger to me, let alone my other patients, and I have to look out for her, too.” That probably came off a little more patronizing than I intended.

“I’m not a danger,” he says. He holds his hands up, palms facing me in submission. “I swear. I’m not.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but the sincerity on his face is persuasive. “Then who did you think you were attacking yesterday?”

He shakes his head firmly.

“Scott.”

“The dude who’s been holding me captive,” he says quietly. 

“Can you tell me why?” 

“C’mon!” Scott bursts out. I try to stay calm, so as not to spook him, but I can’t disguise my automatic flinch. He winces and sits down on the bed, his hands still splayed out, trying to show me he’s not a threat. It’s a solid effort. I try to respond by forcing myself to relax, even though I’m not feeling it. He looks up at the door in Rachel’s direction, swallows, and continues. “He… forced me to come here.”

“I understand,” I say patiently. “You don’t want to be here.”

“Not exactly,” he says. “I wanted to leave where we was before, but, not like this. Not with him. Okay? Is that good enough for you? I gave you the answer you wanted, and I told the truth. Can you let Rachel in now, please?”

“This is good, Scott, but-“

“You don’t believe me.” He sighs and puts his head on his fists. Rachel’s cries become softer as she’s pulled back down the hall. 

“I want to hear you,” I assure him.

“But you don’t want to believe it,” he says slowly. He looks up at me. “It’s like you weren’t even there. You act like the last eight years didn’t happen to you, too.”

Eight years? He’s only been here eight weeks. “I promise you, they did.”

“Not how I remember them.”

“Well,” I say carefully. “I wish I lived the last eight years differently. Maybe I’d have less debt to pay off.” 

Scott actually laughs at that. “Jesus. You’re a genuine doctor, huh?”

I hold up my tag to show him. “That’s what my medical school diploma says.”

“No kiddin’.” He looks impressed. “Good for you, man.”

“I’m here to help you through this. I want to help you, Scott.”

“If you really want to help me,” he says, dropping his voice. “Help her.” He points at the door where we can still hear Rachel shouting.

“She may be having an episode of regression,” I admit. I know it’s not the first time. I remember from her chart that her first institutionalization was not long after her accident. No wonder she’s having residual trauma from the carbon monoxide. “But we’ll help her. I promise.”

“Let her see me,” Scott says again. “Please.”

“I don’t know if that’s-”

“Or Renata.”

“Duarte?” I ask. “Why?”

He shakes his head and stares at the ground. “God.” He looks back up at me suddenly and drops his voice to a low, intense whisper. “If this is all a trick, if you’re faking, or whatever, it’s all right. I ain’t gonna be mad at you. But you gotta give me somethin’. Okay? Cause right now, you’re freakin’ me the fuck out, and that fuckin’ shirt ain’t helpin’.”

I glance down. “What about my shirt?”

“God_ dammit.” _Scott rubs at his eyes again, frustrated. Maybe Percy is right about my dress code being too casual. 

“Do you need anything else for now?” I ask. I glance at the window. I think Todd is still helping Janice with Rachel. I should probably go check on them.

“Nothin’ you can do for me, I guess.”

I offer him a smile, but he doesn’t return it. 

I walk into the hall and close the door, about to start for the exit, but I can’t escape in time. “_There_ you are,” a female voice rings out sharply from down the hall.

I wince. “Hey, Shweta.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m not supposed to be here right now.”

“Yeah, no shit. Office. Now.”

I follow her down the hall to the resident office, glancing around to make sure Percy isn’t going to storm down the hall after us and personally throw me out. She closes the door. I’m not sure I’m any better off with her than with Percy. She looks like she might throw me out right now, too.

“What the hell is going on, Homer?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” I say. “Why is Scott Brown not getting evaluated in isolation? Something is seriously off with his sense of reality and no one is doing a thing about it. And why is Rachel DeGrasso on horse tranquilizers? Percy didn’t have good answers for me and Darmi’s about as much help as usual.”

But Shweta is pressing her lips and shaking her head. “You’ve got to back the fuck off. Percy’s starting to ask about _ you_.”

“Me?” I repeat.

“He thinks you may be freaking out from the carbon monoxide, and he asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s not a side effect of carbon monoxide.”

“Homer.” She sighs and clicks her tongue at me.

“I’m fine. But I appreciate the tip.”

“I’m serious. He’s gonna call Chen if you don’t knock it off.”

“Why? What’s she gonna do?” I ask. Our program director is based at the hospital and doesn’t usually care what happens at our clinical rotations, as long as they get completed and our evaluations are solid. 

Shweta sets her face in her hands and groans loudly. She’s always had a lot more respect for the clinical hierarchy than me. It’s part of the reason why she hates me so much. Shweta is the pillar of the system back at the hospital, but here at the clinic, I’m the favored child of Dr. Percy. We’re natural enemies. We’re both acutely aware of this and are trying to survive the year together in spite of it. 

“She could take away your chief position, for one. Or worse. You know how precarious this whole rotation is. If Percy pulls out and we have to find another clinical site, you and I are fucked.”

“He wouldn’t do that. He loves having us here.”

“He loves _ you_. He _ tolerates _ the rest of us. But he doesn’t love what you’re doing right now. So stop questioning him. On that note, it’s your day off and I don’t even know why you’re here, because at this point it’s bordering on a duty hour violation.”

“No, it’s not,” I say automatically.

She folds her arms. “Let me rephrase. For you, it will be by the end of the week. So get the hell out of here before I report you.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna test me?”

Not particularly.

I’m halfway home in my Uber before I realize that Shweta didn’t answer any of my questions about the patients. I don’t think she knows anything more than I do.

Something is not right, but it’s not Shweta. She’s not wrong. There’s only so much I can stir things up before I put the rotation, my position, and possibly my entire career goals in trouble. 

If something is off with Dr. Percy or the patient care, I’m not the one who should fix it. All I can do is what I’m supposed to do. All I can do is follow the rules.

What I can’t figure out is - why isn’t he?

What did Scott’s attack do to him, and more importantly, if this is the real problem, how do I fix it?


	2. The Magician

“Nice turtleneck, Dr. Roberts.”

I wince slightly, trying to dissect Darmi’s greeting as I approach her desk. I don’t fully believe her, in fact, I’m relatively sure that she’s shading me, but it can’t hurt to play along. “Well, I would have gone for another football sweater, after it was such a hit yesterday, but I guess mine were all dirty.”

“Shame,” Darmi says, and now I’m not sure if she’s shading or flirting. All I know is that I need to exit this conversation, quickly.

“So, I didn’t want to bother Dr. Percy, but he’s half an hour late for tonight’s supervision.”

She gives me a look. “Is he really late, or are you just impatient?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if I’m gonna interrupt him,” she warns. 

“I’m on his calendar.”

“Yeah, but we’re on _ red _ alert,” she says, adding a loaded emphasis to the word. 

I squint at her as it registers. “The Russians are back?” I ask.

But before she can continue, we hear the door at the top of the stairs creak open, and we both turn to look as Dr. Percy descends the spiral staircase. He looks different - his beard is gone, and his hair is shorter. He almost looks like a different person. Cooler. More professional. Maybe it’s for the conference next week?

“Oh. Dr. Roberts. Your shift is starting now?”

I clear my throat. Surely I pass dress code muster tonight, though the fact that he’s suddenly so much crisper makes me feel a little off guard. “I was waiting for you for supervision.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone that for this week.”

I blink at him in surprise. “Sir?”

“Follow me.” He tilts his head and I walk up the staircase to his office. The lights glisten across the bay through his window. His office, usually so neat and precise, looks more disorganized. His books, which are always lined up on his shelves, are stacked on the desk, and there’s a messy sheaf of papers beside them. He’s definitely onto something, just as Darmi had warned me.

“I’d like to hear your reports later, but for now I’m suspending your supervision for the rest of this week.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. I hesitate, wondering what Shweta would say right now. “What about… the guidelines?”

He gives me a small wink. “I’m not worried. What your program director doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“You mean Dr. Chen?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What she doesn’t know…” I prod, as gently as I can.

“Well,” Dr. Percy says. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, of course. Look. You’re exceptionally advanced for the third year.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.” Percy doesn’t dole out praise easily - I know he thinks highly of me, but to hear it from him? 

“I’m sure the patients will be fine. I’ll go over your progress notes later. If anything comes up, you can still page me.”

“Of course,” I say. 

“I’m also reassigning Rachel DeGrasso’s vocational training. I’d like to have her working with me in the lab for now so I can keep a closer eye on her.”

“All right.”

“And whatever you were doing with Scott Brown, stop it. He’s fine, and I’ve got his care under control.”

“No. You don’t,” I say. I take a deep breath. This is risky, especially after getting praise from him, but it needs to be said. “He’s afraid of you.”

“Not you, then?”

I lick my lips before forcing it out. “He believes that you’re holding him captive-”

“What?” he asks, his eyes widening in shock. “He _ said _ that?” He’s almost too surprised, as if he’s never seen this kind of treatment-related transference and delusion before. I don’t know why. We had three patients with similar symptoms just in the last quarter.

I talk faster now, trying to get all of my thoughts out before he can interrupt me again. “So, why don’t we just transition his care for a couple of weeks? Settle him down.” 

“Absolutely not. He’s trying to manipulate his way out of a potential breakthrough, he’ll backslide.”

“Oh.” I’m embarrassed that the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course. 

“We don’t allow psychotic patients to dictate their own treatment plan for a good reason. Brown is a unique case, Homer. You are a skilled clinician for where you are in your training, but with where he is right now, these latest delusions and aggressive outbursts... I simply can’t see how it would be safe.”

“I understand.” I glance down. “But-”

He tilts his head at me, studying me. “Is everything okay? You’re feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” I say, squinting at him. “Why? Should I not be? Are you still feeling off? From the carbon monoxide, maybe?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” he says. He offers me a smile I can’t quite place. 

“Look,” I say, taking another deep breath. “Shouldn’t we at least try what we can to get him in a more compliant state? Yesterday he literally begged me to take his case. He’s not talking to anyone else, and he’s not outright refusing treatment. Can’t we take his preference into consideration? Just for a little while. You and I can cover him together in supervision, and I’ll use extra precautions.”

He peers at me over his glasses. “Homer. You’re acting like this is a possibility, when I’ve said no. It’s not appropriate, and we aren’t doing supervision this week. What part of that didn’t register?”

“All right,” I say. I can sense when I’ve lost the argument. “I’m sorry.”

“All part of the learning environment,” he says dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Go check on your patients, and we’ll talk later.”

I make my way down the staircase, nodding at Darmi before proceeding into the treatment wing. I start for my office, but before I can reach the door of safety, I see there’s another commotion outside Rachel DeGrasso’s room. I rush down the hall to check. 

“The hell’s going on?” I ask Todd as he sticks his head out to greet me. I fold my arms, trying to peer around him.

“She’s drugged up to the gills. We can’t give her anything else,” Todd says to me. Misha is inside the door trying to talk softly to Rachel, who is still sobbing.

“Yeah, I know, I saw her chart yesterday,” I say. 

“Well, and Dr. Percy upped her dose today.”

“Higher?” I ask in disbelief. Todd shrugs at me. “Is that even legal? How is she still standing up?” 

“She didn’t sleep last night, either,” Todd adds. “And if Rachel doesn’t sleep, pretty much no one else gets to.”

Rachel suddenly looks up and charges directly at me. I brace myself, ready to catch her, but she shoves me aside roughly and darts down the hall. “Misha!” I shout, and take off after her. 

By the time I catch up to her, she’s back at Scott’s door, beating on it with her fists. He approaches his window, a look of tense concern on his face.

I stand beside Rachel, trying to project as much of a calming presence as I can, even though my heart is pounding. “Hey,” I say softly. I hold a hand up to Misha to warn her to stay back. “You need to see him, huh?” Rachel moans louder in response, wordless, but her distress is clear. “Give us a couple minutes, okay?”

Misha manages to subdue Rachel and wrestle her away from the door. I open it and slip back inside Scott’s room. He’s standing against the wall, his arms hugging his chest tightly. I can see the anxiety written all over his face as his weight shifts rhythmically in a small rocking motion. He's deeply agitated now, but he's also trying to control it. That’s a promising sign, all things considered. 

“What’s goin’ on?”

“She’s upset. She can’t stop crying.” He glances away from me, down at his slippers. I can’t read his reaction. “She keeps trying to come back to your door.”

“Yeah. I saw,” he says evenly, but his voice breaks slightly, giving him away.

“We need her to calm down. Eat. Sleep, if she can.”

“Yeah,” he says again, shaking his head, still avoiding my gaze as he sways on his feet. “You sure do.” He sounds tired.

“If I let her in here,” I continue. “What would you do?”

Scott straightens up and meets my eyes. The rocking stops. “I ain’t gonna hurt her,” he promises, an urgency in his voice. 

“Did something happen between the two of you?”

He shakes his head and looks away again, pained. “Don’t ask me,” he mutters. “She’s crazy. Right? We all are.”

“This is important,” I say. “If something happened that I don’t know about-”

“She knows what she’s doin’,” he says. “You gonna listen to her tell you what she needs or not?”

“First, I need to know I can trust you.”

“I promise,” he says softly. “You and me, we want the same thing.”

“What’s that?”

“For Rachel to get better.” He sighs, reluctant. “Is there somethin’ in my history that’s got you worried about this?”

“Besides your episode the other day?”

“That was the carbon monoxide,” he says dully. "Lost my mind there for a minute. I told you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not a side effect of carbon monoxide, Scott.”

He shakes his head, helpless. “Then I guess I’m just crazy. Can’t I see her now?”

“She’s vulnerable, and you’re supposed to be in isolation.”

“I’ll follow her lead,” he insists. “I swear. Please, let me… try.”

I stare at him for a long moment. His face is strangely sincere. The funny thing is, I know crazy, and he doesn't look crazy right now. Nothing like it. He looks like I feel. Worried. Caring. Maybe Scott believes Dr. Percy is his kidnapper, but that delusion doesn’t seem to extend to Rachel in any dangerous way. And it’s not helpful for anyone for her to be in this state. Plus, Misha and Todd are still down the hall with her. 

“Follow me.” He presses his lips together and nods his assent.

Scott and I walk around the corner to the female rooms. The door to Rachel’s room is closed. I knock on it to get Misha’s attention. 

There’s another flurry of activity, and I see Misha bracing herself as the door opens, but I grab her arm gently to stop her as Rachel throws herself at Scott, sobbing quietly.

He catches her and lowers himself onto her bed. She wraps her arms around his chest and buries her face in it. He looks to me, as if asking for permission. 

I want to see where this goes. I don’t move.

Not seeing any objection from me, Scott begins to gently rock her on the bed, back and forth, as her sobs subside. Her fingers dig themselves tightly in his shirt, and his eyes close. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s okay. I’m here.” He looks up at me. “Mind givin’ us a minute?”

I back out of the room, the door still open. I point silently down the hall and Todd realizes what I’m saying – watch on the cameras. He backs down the hallway and I linger outside the door, listening.

“You can’t yell and fight your way outta this one. All right? It ain’t helping. You’re just gonna make yourself crazy, and you and I both know you’re not.” I hear her whimper a response, but she’s calming down. “They ain’t lettin’ me outta this place anytime soon, either, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he murmurs to her. “So you ain’t gonna be alone. All right?”

I can’t see her response, but she’s quiet for the first time in about two days, which is something. 

“I got nothin’. Nothin’ except y’all two.” There’s another long silence. Scott laughs. It almost sounds bitter. “No,” he says. “I don’t know what his deal is, neither.” Another silence. “You don’t got to say nothin’. Okay? I ain’t never gonna forget.”

I frown and fold my arms. I hope he’s not going to encourage her to share his delusions. But right now, he’s at least gotten her to stop sobbing, and she doesn’t seem to be objecting to anything. 

She stopped fighting. It’s a step. 

“No one’s gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it. But you gotta do somethin’. You gotta eat. Sleep. Pull yourself together. Stop fightin’ this, cause I need you here. All right? Like I said. You’re all I got.”

There’s silence for a moment. I scuff my shoe on the floor, trying to figure out where to go with this. “Hey doc, you still out there?” I wait a moment before moving back into their sightline. “She’s ready to eat.”

I nod and signal to Misha, holding up two fingers. She nods and scampers down the hall, eager to be doing something other than waiting to possibly restrain a patient. I look back at the patients. Rachel reaches up to touch Scott’s head.

“I don’t hate it,” he says. They both laugh, for the first time. He nods at a silent question that I don’t understand. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, then looks back up at me. “Hey, you allowed to tell me why she’s like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why she can’t talk. Or is that, like, a violation or something?”

“We’ve discussed it in group,” I admit carefully. “You really don’t remember?”

“Tell me again,” he says.

I fold my arms and lean against the wall. Is he also suffering from amnesia? I should document that. It’s not a typical presentation. Could this really all be from the carbon monoxide? “Well, she’s not mentally impaired, if that’s what you’re asking. She can understand most of what you say. Too much auditory stimulation is not good for her, though. You shouldn’t talk at her too much.”

“Then what the hell is wrong?”

“It’s called global aphasia,” I say. “Her case is acquired, which is upsetting for her. She used to be fully capable. She had a severe left frontal brain injury as a teenager.”

“Car accident,” Scott says quietly.

“That’s right,” I say. 

Rachel’s hands tighten on his shirt.

“So she could talk… before.”

“Yes.”

“Could she learn to talk again?”

“Anything is possible,” I say. “The brain can do remarkable things. But-“

“Her brain just don’t got the right pieces,” he finishes. He holds her in place where she’s still clinging silently to his chest. “And we do group together?”

“That’s right. That’s where she knows you from.”

“Right,” he says quietly. He looks up at me, his hands tight on her back. “Let me help her. With talking and stuff.”

“With her speech therapy?” I ask in surprise. 

“She wants to talk.”

“She always has. That’s not the problem.”

“Maybe things are different.”

The food trays arrive, two of them. Scott sets them on the floor and Rachel sits beside him, leaning against the wall, both of them with their knees pulled to their chests. 

Both of them eat slowly, like they’re trying to remember how. They ignore the forks and eat clumsily with their hands, as if they’ve forgotten what forks are for. Another strange side effect from the carbon monoxide? Brain damage from the temporary lack of oxygen? Could that explain all of this?

I lurk in the corner of the room, trying to let them do their thing. Neither one gets occupational therapy services, but right now I’m wondering if I should order some. Rachel, I can understand, but what is Scott doing? Copying her, perhaps? I make another note to have him watched at breakfast in the morning.

Scott offers Rachel extras of everything on his tray. She accepts when he offers her his cookie. At one point, she even giggles at something, and he smiles warmly. It’s like they’re sharing a secret joke I don’t understand.

Scott’s words echo in my head. 

_ You’re all I got. _

Why now? 

What’s changed?

After they finish eating, Scott walks her to her bed, gently holding her elbow. He settles on the floor beside her and leans over, whispering to her softly. I can’t make out all the words, but it sounds like a bedtime prayer, which is strange, because Scott isn’t religious. I’m not sure if Rachel is – her chart never mentioned. I think her family is. I briefly wonder if that, too, could be the lack of oxygen, but I shake my head. If this is brain damage, it’s one of the strangest patterns of damage I’ve ever observed. 

Once she’s finally asleep, I allow him to sit there for awhile. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. I wonder if he’s going to fall asleep, too, but he finally opens his eyes and looks to me. I nod, and he slowly climbs to his feet. He glances over his shoulder as we walk out together, checking one more time to make sure Rachel hasn’t woken up.

“Why don’t we go to the rec room?” I ask when he stops in front of his door. He shrugs and continues down the hall into the open room. I turn on the lights. It’s dark out, but we can see that a storm is blowing in, dark clouds gathering in waves beyond the Bay Bridge. 

I wonder what it looks like from Coit Tower right now. 

Scott stands against the window and stares out at the sky, refusing to meet my glance. 

“Congratulations,” I say. “That was impressive.” He shrugs modestly. “How did you do it?”

“You know how.” 

“I don’t.”

He folds his arms, still refusing to look at me. “You really still think I’m delusional.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“But you’re not gonna give me that sign, neither.” The hostility momentarily shocks me. His trust issues are worsening. I thought I was the one he trusted. I’ve got to get him back somehow if I’m going to help him.

“I’m sorry, Scott. I don’t think I remember things the same way you do, but-”

“God, how are you such a fucking asshole here?” he snaps, turning on me.

I take a step back and my thumb brushes the panic button again. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t want your help. I want the other guy back.” He blinks quickly, as if he’s barely holding back tears. “I never thought he’d forget me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can-“

“Then fuck off.”

I’ve got to change tacks. Keep him talking. Find our connection again. I caress the panic button in my pocket, making sure I know where it is.

“What you did back there was impressive. She trusts you. Why do you think that is?”

“I ain’t gonna do nothin’ inappropriate with her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says in a sharp tone, ignoring my question. “Me and her, it ain’t like that. She always said I was like her annoying little brother.”

“Said?” I ask patiently.

He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Rachel had a brother,” I recall. 

“He died in the accident.” Scott bobs his head slowly, understanding.

“You remember that much.”

“Lucky guess.” The silence drags out almost too long. “This is probably gonna sound like a funny question to you, but… what’s my situation?”

“What do you mean?”

“My diagnosis. What’s wrong with me? I want to know everything, I can handle it.”

He looks sincere. I take a deep breath. “We believe that you meet the criteria for schizophrenia. You’ve also experienced severe depression at times.”

“What about… medical?” He gives me a plaintive look.

I shrug. “You have asthma.”

He blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s the only thing we monitor you for medically. You had your appendix removed a few years back.”

“Nothing else?” He folds his arms, but he looks almost hopeful.

“That’s all I know of.”

“Well. Fuck me.” He looks pleased for some reason. “What about Renata? How’s she doin’?”

“She’s fine,” I assure him. 

“She didn’t say nothin’ to you about any of this? Not since the carbon monoxide?”

“We haven’t really discussed it.”

His head whirls around at that. “You ain’t her doctor.”

“No, Dr. Percy is.”

He shakes his head, trying to process this. “Jesus.” He licks his lips. “Can you just check on her yourself? Please?”

“No one’s hurting Renata. She’s fine.” 

He turns around. “You gotta talk to her. Alone.” He’s desperate. “Ask if she wants to see me.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” I promise. 

“Why do you think Rachel responded to me?” he presses suddenly. 

I shrug. “I think you’re a gentle soul. A kind person.”

“Hey. Scott Brown. Have we met?” He tilts his head and stares at me. I have to chuckle at that. “I am not a kind person,” he says with a short laugh, and are we laughing together? “I’m a ragin’ asshole, down to my core. Hell, I was a raging asshole when you was still out frog-giggin’, or whatever the hell you did up there all those years in Missouri. That’s me. All right? But I’m an asshole who believes her.”

I shake my head, trying not to give away any surprise at this. “I don’t think you’re as much of an asshole as you want me to think.”

“Yeah, well. You also forgot the last eight years. You’d change your mind if you remembered.” He shrugs and looks back out the window. “And you’d know why I don’t want to be in the same room as Hunter Percy.”

“You’re scared of him.”

“And you’re not.” He shakes his head. “Christ, we’re doomed.”

“Dr. Percy wants to help-”

“I don’t want his help!”

I press my fingers together as I struggle for a response. Scott’s fear is real, I can see that, but so is Dr. Percy’s stubbornness. I’ve got to help both of them through this before the situation gets worse. I’m the only person who can do this. I just don’t know how.

“What do you want, Scott?”

He shrugs, helpless. “To get the hell away from Percy.”

“You want to leave. Fine. But you also know that you need treatment first, and the best treatment for you is right here.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

I take a deep breath. “You would see anyone other than Dr. Percy?”

“Sure,” he says. “What are you tryin’ to say?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I’m definitely... _ not _ saying that you should ask Darmi how to file a complaint with the California Department of Mental Health.”

“Right,” he says, lifting his chin, all of a sudden picking up what I’m putting down. “You’d never tell me something like that.” He blinks and I remain silent, waiting. “I mean, Jesus, someone like you could probably get fired for sayin’ somethin’ like that.”

I nod, raising my eyebrows. “But hypothetically, if you objected to a single provider, but not the facility, you could probably force a reassignment to a different provider. If that could be accomodated.” I shrug. “I mean, I sincerely hope you wouldn’t do that, of course.”

“Bet it’s a pain in the ass for y’all when patients file complaints, ain’t it?” Scott asks.

“Big time,” I agree. “The paperwork alone, not to mention potential site visits from state agencies.”

“You must get a lot of complaints with all the crazy patients.”

“Not too many that make it up to the Patient Right’s Office. Most people don’t know their rights, after all.”

“Darmi, you said?” he says, studying me with interest.

“No,” I say firmly. 

“You didn’t say nothin’,” he says, catching on. “But it sounds like I should go have me a chat with that Darmi lady.”

“I hope you don’t file a complaint, Scott,” I repeat automatically. “But whatever happens, I’m sure we can accommodate you just fine.”

“Right,” he says. “Thanks for talkin’ me down, doc. I feel better.” He studies me closely. “So, if there was a complaint… you could be my doctor?”

“Maybe,” I say slowly. “Hey, look, man. I gave you a bone, can you give me one?” Scott relaxes and leans against the table, studying me. “I need you to be honest with me about what you think. Stop being so vague and get to the point. We’ll look for evidence together. Evidence of what I think is true, and evidence of what you think is true. We’ll figure it out together.”

He looks me up and down and scoffs. “What kind of deal is it really if you already decided you’re gonna win?”

I blink at him. “Why do you say that?”

“What evidence would I have? There ain’t no evidence what I’m sayin’ is true, except the fact that four of us remember everything the same. Only problem is, one’s a fuckin’ liar, one can’t talk, and you forgot about the other one. That just leaves me.” He barks a bitter laugh. “And you’re convinced I’m nuts. You know, all the time you and me knew each other, we both were convinced the other one was bonkers. Now, I guess we’re really dug in.” He points at me. “That’s irony.”

“All right,” I say smoothly, not sure how to respond to any of his word salad. “I’ll make sure you and Rachel get to see each other when she wakes up. Because you’re right. It’s important for her. And you can trust me.” He gives me a skeptical look. “I want you to see that, even if I can’t be what you want me to be.”

He shrugs. “Thanks, doc.”

“Would that be a start, Scott? If this hail mary works, if I can get you on my patient roster, could you think about trusting me?”

“Yeah, well. We’ll see.”

It’s not the deal I was hoping for, but it’s better than nothing. I try to smile at him, but I’m not sure it reaches my eyes. “Bet you need some rest, too.”

We start walking for his cell. “You gonna get some relaxation time yourself?” he asks casually.

I heave a deep sigh. “Not looking too likely tonight,” I admit. “But I’m used to it. I’ll be fine.”

“All right,” he says as we reach his room. “You take it easy, _ Doctor _ Homer Roberts.”

“I’ll see you later,” I say, “Mister Scott Brown.”

He offers me a small smile as the door closes between us, and for a moment, I’m struck with a strong sense of familiarity and warm delight. It’s not something I’m used to feeling with patients. Something about him is catching me with my guard down. I need to get it together. I take a deep breath, and then I start for the women’s side of the wing. To Renata Duarte’s room. 

She’s sitting up, and she stares right at me. Like she’s looking through me. The same way Rachel did last night. I knock and open the door.

“Ms. Duarte?”

She says something in Spanish that I can’t understand. If I’d known where my life was going, I shouldn’t have taken French as my language in school, but it’s too late.

“What?”

She shakes her head.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Confused,” she says. She pulls her knees to her chest and stares at them.

“You’re not the only one,” I say. “I think everyone was probably a little shaken up by what happened the other day.”

“Yes,” she says tightly.

“Scott Brown has been saying some funny stuff.”

She shrugs. “He usually does.”

“He wants to see you.” She doesn’t react to this. I wanted to get a read on her, either positive or negative, but she’s perfectly blank. “Hopefully he’ll be released back into the general population soon. You can see him at rec time or group.” It occurs to me that Percy didn’t say anything about releasing him, but surely as calm as he’s been, he’ll have to be downgraded from isolation soon, even if he puts in a complaint.

“All right,” Renata says in a monotone.

I wait, but she says nothing. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

She shakes her head, pressing her lips together.

“You’re afraid of something.”

Her eyes widen, the sign of recognition, but she’s still silent.

“Is it Scott?”

She barks out a laugh. “God, no.”

“Is it me?”

She looks away and shakes her head slightly.

“Is it something you don’t want to tell me?”

She presses her lips together and looks down.

“Renata, I need you to trust me.”

“Sure,” she says.

I try to smile at her. “Maybe you can discuss it with Dr. Percy tomorrow.”

She looks away from me and says nothing, but there’s a pained expression in her silence. I back out of the room and head for the office. 

If my stealth rebellion works and I get Scott on my census tomorrow, I’m going to need to look further into carbon monoxide side effects and amnesia. I’ve got a long night of reading ahead of me if I want to try to get to the bottom of this mystery. 

I might as well get started now.


	3. The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every step of therapeutic progress comes two steps back.

The patients are quiet tonight, but that doesn’t mean I get much sleep. 

I make a valiant attempt to catch some shut-eye on the couch in the resident office in between journal articles, but my brain keeps replaying Scott’s strange behaviors, Renata’s comments, Dr. Percy’s new look. None of it makes sense, and my brain is struggling to piece together whatever it is I’m not seeing. 

Scott’s delusions shifted abruptly. With no apparent cause. That’s the part that makes no sense to me. Scott’s reality - even Rachel’s behavior - all of it has changed wildly, and all of it started with the carbon monoxide. 

If the gas had an impact on the patients, it could have affected us, too, which is why I can’t let go of this mystery. It could explain Dr. Percy’s strange behavior, and why I feel so odd and out of sorts myself. If he and I are affected, then it’s more important than ever for me to understand. But none of my journal searches turn up anything useful, and my brain is at a sleep-deprived loss by the time I roll into the conference room for the morning staff meeting.

I sit in the back row of chairs, trying to ignore Dr. Percy’s conspicuous absence and Shweta’s condescending sideways glares. I pick at a blueberry muffin and nurse a paper cup full of stale black coffee from the free breakfast spread, trying to force myself through one more hour without sleep.

“-carry at all times.”

My head shoots up as Carmen demonstrates the midzalom syringe at the front of the room. I look worriedly toward Shweta, and she shakes her head, scolding me.

“Yes, the residents too, Dr. Roberts,” Carmen says, noticing my response. She smiles, but I don’t return it.

“You’re sure?” I ask carefully.

“This is Dr. Percy’s new policy,” she assures me. “For everyone with patient duty who’s qualified. Residents included.”

“It just doesn’t-”

“You’ll have to ask him,” she says, this time brusquely.

I wait until the room has cleared out to pull Shweta to the side. “Hey. Do you feel right about this midzalom thing? I mean, I understand the BHA’s have to carry injectors, but-”

“It’s a patient safety directive,” Shweta says firmly. “What’s wrong? Are you suddenly opposed to patient safety?”

I glance around. Carmen and Darmi are gossiping in the corner. “Can we talk in the office a minute?”

Shweta sighs with great reluctance and takes her time to collect a refill of coffee with a dash of milk before following me into our work room.

“Darmi told me the Russians are poking around again,” I say as I close the door.

“Ruskin’s people? Great, maybe we’ll get another wave of funding.” She studies my reaction and quickly realizes we’re on different pages. “What are you so worried about?”

“I told you before, that guy gives me the creeps.”

“He also gave the Melanu Foundation two million last year.” She shrugs.

“I know. Did you ever study the Stanford Prison Experiment?” I ask as I start to pace the room.

“Did I ever…?” Shweta scoffs at me and collapses at her desk. “Homer, I fucking went to Stanford.”

Of course. She was toiling away on illegal doses of Adderall in sun-drenched buildings in Palo Alto while I was still fucking around on the gridiron of a school she never heard of in Missouri, and yet both of us wound up in the same place. It’s one more reason why Shweta hates me. 

“I’m just saying we should always be questioning what we’re told and whether it could be unethical if we thought about it in a different context. Even with Percy. Remove his authority. Let’s evaluate this neutrally.”

“Look.” Shweta sighs. “The moral of the Stanford Prison Experiment was... Zimbardo was a lunatic who only listened to reason when he was sticking his dick in it.”

“What?” I ask, blinking at her in confusion.

“Tons of people were involved in that. No one had a problem with any of it until his girlfriend came in and screamed at him. Unethical is one thing. Percy is an expert in our field, not some horny professor. And he’s an expert who controls our careers. Which I happen to care about.”

“Right, but…” I stop myself, not sure if I should continue.

“Spit it out,” she says impatiently.

I take a deep breath. “Scott Brown said something to me last night about frog-gigging.”

“‘Frog-gigging’?” Shweta makes a face. “What the hell kind of delusion is that?”

“It’s not-” I start, then shake my head. “Jesus, Shweta. It’s a real thing. Where I’m from. People hunt frogs.”

“For fun?” she asks, shocked.

I shrug, suddenly realizing I probably shouldn’t brag about this. “And food?”

She shudders. “Scott’s not from Missouri.”

“No.” I point at myself. “I am. But how’d he know that? I never tell patients where I’m from.”

“Probably hired the detective firm of Safari and Chrome,” Shweta suggests.

I shake my head at her. “Quoi?”

She rolls her eyes, enjoying my inability to keep up. “He googled you on rec time. Obviously. We could check his search history, if it would make you feel better.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say. Let him have some privacy. We don’t need to stalk the patients if nothing inappropriate is happening. And it’s natural for him to have some curiosity about me. It’s a sign that he’s starting to pay more attention to his reality.

“So what does frog-gigging have to do with the Russians? Or the Stanford Prison Experiment?”

“I don’t like any of this.” I finger my football ring absently. “I don’t want to be sedating patients without consent. Even if Rachel loses her mind again. I don’t feel like that’s our job. Do you?”

“She needed something quick, and it wasn’t available in the moment. That’s not safe. He’s making sure that won’t happen again.”

“But she did calm down.”

“Eventually,” Shweta says, looking at me like an idiot, “but you broke Scott’s isolation order to do it. You’re lucky you’re not getting written up.” I hear the unspoken end to her sentence - that if it was anyone other than me, I would be.

“I just feel like it goes against everything we’re supposed to be doing here, and I don’t get it.”

Shweta clicks her tongue. “_ Now _ you question Percy and his fucked up priorities?”

“Maybe we should raise it with the program.”

She holds up a threatening finger to me. “I will kick your ass. Don’t fuck with my rotation.”

“The standard for involuntary sedation is supposed to be a person who’s a danger to another person,” I insist. “Rachel DeGrasso didn’t meet that standard.” 

She ticks her fingers. “She wasn’t eating or sleeping. She was acting unpredictably. She was becoming a danger to herself.”

“She wasn’t aggressive!”

“It’s not your decision, Homer,” Shweta emphasizes. “You don’t have to defend it.”

“Least restrictive option possible,” I shoot back. “Breaking the isolation order was less restrictive than involuntary medication.”

“DeGrasso can’t consent to anything. She can’t talk.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m just saying it doesn’t feel-”

“Dr. Roberts?” The door opens and we both fall silent, suddenly caught. Dr. Percy scoots in. I’m surprised to see him. It feels like he’s been trying to avoid me, but I know he’s been watching me. Checking up on me. I’ve seen him in the EMR already looking over my patient notes from overnight. I don’t understand why he won’t talk to me. I don’t understand what he’s trying to test me on. 

“Did you know about this?” He holds up a form. I recognize it right away and immediately know what this is about. Dr. Percy glances over at Shweta, noticing her for the first time. “I’m sorry, Dr. Singh. Can you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course,” she says smoothly. As she exits, she shoots me a severe warning look. I try not to give anything away, since Percy is still staring at me and doesn’t catch it.

“What is it?” I ask politely, trying to play dumb.

He hits the paper and holds it up for display. “Brown is filing a complaint. Did you know about this?”

“He is?” I ask, trying to sound surprised as I reach for the paperwork.

“Can you believe this?” Percy shakes his head in amazement. “He’s insane.”

“Well, yeah. That’s generally the standard to be here,” I remind him, and he cracks a smile at me in response. Emboldened, I press on. “He’s not asking to leave,” I point out as I scan the paper. “Just a care transition.”

“I suppose he has every right to try,” Percy says slowly. “But, these latest delusions-”

“You’re not taking the transference personally, are you?” I ask, studying Percy carefully. “You know it’s his illness talking.”

“Of course not. But this shift feels dangerous, and these aggressive outbursts could just as easily emerge again.”

“Well. I guess we could see if there’s a bed at Langley Porter,” I say slowly.

“What? Transfer him?” Dr. Percy asks, shocked. “You really mean that?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

“You don’t think he’s better off here?” He stares closely at me.

“Is he? He doesn’t seem to think so.”

He pauses, thinking it over, studying me. “I’m wondering if there might be an easier solution.”

I try not to respond, but it’s all I can do not to pump my fist. He’s getting there. “Like what?”

“Play along,” he suggests. “Honestly, I’m hesitant to allow him out of our sight. His symptoms are so unpredictable. I think he needs consistency. The discipline we provide.”

“Well. Whatever you think is best,” I murmur.

“How would you feel about taking him as a patient?”

I react with as much of a surprised expression as I can muster. “Not the worst idea,” I say slowly. “We could just put him on my caseload. That’s all he wants. If it sets him back, so be it. It’ll be a lot easier for everyone to avoid another investigation.” I hand the paper back to him and wait, holding my breath. “Right?”

“And if he does have any violent urges,” Dr. Percy says, “you’re prepared now.” He indicates the syringe on my desk.

“Right,” I say, trying not to reveal my distaste.

He sighs. “All right. He can go on your roster, but I want to debrief each and every session. It’s important that you tell me everything about his delusions so we can collaborate on his care plan.”

“So we’re back on supervision?”

“Were we ever not?” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“In fact, why don’t you just take Duarte off my hands, too? As long as we’re going there. Just take the whole bunch. Maybe you can untangle these delusions with them together.”

“I can try,” I say. “Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” he asks in surprise.

“I’m coming off nights,” I point out.

“Right,” he says. “Get some rest, then. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***

I start with the easy work on Wednesday. My first official session with Renata Duarte. Always compliant, always helpful, always trying to get better. This can’t be too hard. 

“You’re my doctor now?” she asks, studying me carefully.

“Are you okay with that?”

“Sure,” she says, though she doesn’t look like it. She crosses her legs and looks away from me.

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the group session,” I say.

“The carbon monoxide,” she murmurs.

“We’ve been concerned about the effects. I want to know how you’re doing.”

She rubs her fingers nervously. “Nothing to see here.”

“Do you remember what we were doing before that?”

“Scott was talking about his future plans,” she says dully. “Going back to work. I remember.”

“Good,” I say, satisfied. No amnesia, at least.

“You remember that, too, then?” She looks up at me. “And so does Dr. Percy?” Her voice is pointed.

“Yes.”

“Scott doesn’t,” she says softly. “Does he?”

“No. He told me he doesn’t.”

“And you believe he’s insane,” she continues.

“I don’t like that word,” I say carefully. “But I do think he’s struggling with reality. Do you agree?” 

Renata leans back on the couch, staring at the window, her eyes sad and wide. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. I remember lots of things.” She shakes her head. “So many lives.”

“That’s not unusual for someone with your condition. In many ways,” I continue, “we choose which reality we live in every day. That’s what much of Dr. Percy’s work is based on, you know. The idea that reality is subjective, and sometimes we can all lose sight of that. Sometimes, what people perceive as insanity may be nothing more than a temporary breakdown in the border between the reality of our dreams and the reality of our waking lives.”

She sits up, looking back at me. “That’s it,” she says. “I’m in a bad dream.”

“You are?” I ask. “Tell me about it.”

“I remember my life here,” she says. “I do. But I remember another life, too.” She presses her lips and looks down, shaking her head.

“Renata. You can trust me.”

She stares out the window. She’s silent for a few moments, but I can tell she’s considering what to say. “A different life. A life where I never made it to Miami. I was trapped in Cuba. I wanted to escape. I wanted it so badly that I died trying to do it, but then I came back... and I was alone.”

“That sounds terrible,” I agree. 

“And then I met you.”

“Oh?”

“Not you,” she corrects apologetically, seeing my reaction. “Another man. I wanted to trust him, too, but he betrayed me and lured me to another life. One where I knew nothing but cold and suffering. And then, I was here.”

“I didn’t lure you anywhere,” I remind her. “You and I met here, Renata. In this room.”

“And that’s what’s real,” she whispers, looking to me for confirmation. I nod, trying to project my calm certainty to her. She’s getting there. “So you’re saying I can make a choice,” she continues, slowly and carefully. “And with that choice, none of that suffering will be real? Miami, the way I remember it, that could be my life. My _ only _ life.”

“Yes.”

She barks out a laugh. “I think I’m beginning to really lose my mind.”

I lean forward. “Or maybe, you’re finding your way back to it.”

“That’s what you did then?” she presses, fixing me with an intense look. “You decided that this is what’s real, and that the other life is not?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I made a choice. I chose this reality. And you can, too. I can help you.”

“And when it works,” she continues, looking at me closely, “ when we’re finished, I could leave here. I could live a normal life, like before, where none of it is true.”

“Yes,” I say again, trying to contain my excitement. “You can choose reality, Renata. We’ll work together to adapt you to it, and hopefully, you can embrace it.”

“That’s what I want,” she decides.

I lean back, feeling a strong sense of accomplishment. “That’s how you heal,” I agree. 

She offers me a sad smile. “Thank you, Dr. Roberts,” she says. “I think I understand now.”

Getting a breakthrough with at least one of the carbon monoxide patients makes me feel more competent. Less scared for my own future. Maybe I can’t do much for Scott Brown or Rachel DeGrasso, but Renata Duarte is making important therapeutic progress. At this rate, maybe she can even be out of here sooner than expected.

I finally feel confident enough to send for Scott. I saw in the overnight notes that he and Rachel both slept well. That’s at least a good sign, and a promising start to our transition. But the more pressing question is how to break the news to him.

“How are you feeling?” I start off.

“Better,” he says carefully as he settles down on the sofa. He doesn’t lie back or relax, but sits there stiffly, his arms folded against me, betraying his lack of trust. “How are you?”

“I got some sleep,” I admit. “And I thought we should follow up on our chat the other night.”

“Is this a good time to say I’m sorry about everything that happened in group? And it won’t happen again?”

“It’s all right. You’ve had a rough few days.”

“I didn’t mean to freak anyone out.”

I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile. “You didn’t.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “Whatever. I still could really use your help.”

“About that.” I lean back in my chair. I don’t want to admit to him yet that we won, I need more of a concession from him first. “If Dr. Percy agrees to transition you to my caseload, and I agree to take you-”

“What? Yes. Please.” He sits up straight, dropping his arms to the side.

“Can you-?”

“-Anything, God, I’ll do anything.” He leans forward.

“I need you to agree to be honest with me.”

Silence. He leans back in the chair and stares at his hands.

“The only way I’m going to be able to help you is if I can understand why you’re afraid.”

“Did he tell you to say that to me?” he demands, looking back up at me.

“This is only about your treatment. Figuring out what’s best for you. And I’m willing to take that over - if you’re willing to meet me halfway.”

He shakes his head, helpless. “Then I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I don’t got no choice? Do I?” He looks around the room for a long moment before talking again. “Whatever you said to him, thank you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, even with that complaint, he wasn’t gonna hand me over to you like it was nothin’. I know you had to fight.” He closes his eyes and smiles sadly. “You don’t even know what you were up against, man. You don’t know what you just did.”

The paranoia is back. “Do you think you could start to fill me in then? As part of our deal.”

“Maybe.” He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Look. I know you’re my only shot. I know you’re all I got in this place. I know you’re tryin’ to help.” He glances down. “I just wish…” He can’t finish the sentence. There aren’t words. He shakes his head. This reality he’s in is traumatizing for him. I can’t imagine how he must feel to perceive the world the way he does.

“We’ll get you through this together. We’re on the same team.” I try to give him an encouraging look. “Team Scott.”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re frustrated with me,” I continue. 

His head shoots up. “Hell yeah, I am. You know what makes me the most crazy? Here’s some truth for you.” He sits up now, and for the first time, I can see that he’s starting to be honest. Step one. “That soon as we find out you was right the whole time, and I was wrong for most of it, here you are and you’re missin’ your chance to gloat.” He chuckles softly and rubs at his eyes. “But you wouldn’t, would you? You wouldn’t even shove it in my face, not even politely, even when you’d have every right. And that’s just enough to make me wonder if maybe you’re really in there.” He purses his lips. “I know you, man.” His voice falls softer. “I... _ knew _ you.” He falls silent. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he chews on his thumbnail, staring at the floor. 

“Scott,” I say quietly at last. “I don’t understand something.”

“Yeah?”

There’s a lot I don’t understand right now, actually, but what I really need to do is focus him on his internal choices. I’ll pick apart his delusions later. First, I need his commitment. “You came here to be treated by Dr. Percy, because of the amazing work he does with patients like you. You knew how lucky you were to get a bed here. You were incredibly grateful when you arrived. You were responding so well, making so much progress. Then you attack him without provocation, and now you’re completely rejecting his treatment. Do you know what changed? Can you tell me?”

“You might wanna ask him that question,” he says sharply.

“I’m more interested in your answer right now.”

“But it don’t come with proof,” he insists. “Not the kind you’re looking for.”

“Then how do you know it’s true?” I ask. “You believe that Dr. Percy abducted you and held you against your will-”

“Nope.”

“‘Nope’?” I echo.

He rolls his eyes. “I _ know _ he did.”

“So you believe I’m wrong about him.”

“No,” he says with emphasis. “I would never try to tell you that.” He’s almost too forceful. Dripping with sarcasm. He doesn’t believe what he’s saying. I take another deep breath. 

“Then can we talk about what you hope to get out of treatment at this point?”

He leans back. “Apparently it ain’t my choice to be here no more, so I don’t see why none of that matters.”

“You’ll only get better if you want to. And if you’re rejecting treatment-“

He bursts out with a sharp laugh. “Rejecting? Naw. Treat me all you want, man. You? I’ll sit here and talk with you all day long. Or fight with you. Or cuss at you. Or ignore you.” He grins at me, and there’s something familiar in it, something fraternal. Friendly. Teasing. Like he sees me - not his psychologist, but the real me. “It’s comfortable, honestly. Almost feels like old times.”

“But not Dr. Percy.”

“No,” Scott repeats, faintly but firmly. He rubs his forehead. “I got no problems being here, long as I don’t got to be around him. And I got nothin’ else to say about it.”

“What do you really want?” I ask. There’s a long silence. “You want to go back to your normal life, right? Eventually?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you?” 

“I don’t even know what my normal life looks like,” he says quietly. 

“Scott,” I say, trying to be gentle. “You don’t want to spend the rest of your life institutionalized.” He shrugs. “C’mon. What kind of life is that?”

“Had worse.” He picks at his thumb.

“You could have more,” I say quietly. “Better.”

“Not here,” he says softly. “Not with him.”

“Well. He’s out of the picture,” I say. “And we’re transitioning your care, so what next?”

“He ain’t outta nothin’,” Scott says, shaking his head. “You and I both know it. He’s still right behind them walls, pullin’ your strings like the puppet that...” His voice trails off. He’s still not telling me what he’s really thinking.

I sit up. “If that’s how you really feel, we can look into a transfer. But I don’t know that another-”

“Transfer? Yeah, right. That ain’t gonna happen,” Scott says definitively.

“I don’t see why it can’t.”

He leans back and chuckles. “Fine. Try it and see.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“Yes, _ Doctor _ Roberts,” Scott says emphatically. “I want you to go try to arrange a transfer for me. See exactly what your Dr. Percy says. Let’s start there.”

“Fine,” I say. I snap my notebook closed. Langley Porter it is, if that’s what he wants. It’s not a failure. It’s just a transition. “Then I don’t think there’s anything else for us to do in this session.”

“Great.” He stares back at me with a look of defiance.

“So. Want to go to the rec room, or back to your room?” If he’s going to be leaving soon, I want to at least test out some theories. 

His look of defiance softens. “What about my isolation order?”

“I’m lifting it,” I say. “Your treatment plan has changed.”

“Rec room,” he says immediately.

I know that Renata is in the rec room, so as Todd takes him in, I immediately head into the resident office by the observation window, my notebook at the ready.

Scott approaches her gently. She doesn’t react as he sits down at the table with her. She looks at him blankly.

“Renata,” he says. “It’s me.”

“Scott,” she says in response, her affect flat. “I know who you are.”

“You seen that fishtank?” he asks. “If that don’t beat all.”

“How are you?” she asks, not looking directly at him.

“Bit doped up,” he says cautiously. “My head’s pretty fuzzy, all these drugs, I guess. Not too bad otherwise. You?”

“Confused,” she says with a short laugh. “Really, really confused.”

“But you… you remember what I do, right?” I tense immediately at his words. Is he going to incite her back into her delusions now?

“Which part?” she asks with a tight expression on her face.

“You remember Hap. The mine. OA and the movements.” I scribble the words down. I don’t know what they mean, but I’ll try to get them out of him later.

“I do,” she says quietly. I look up sharply. What?

“Thank God.” He relaxes and leans back. “I was startin’ to think maybe I really lost my mind. Tough to keep track in a place like this.”

“But... that’s not all I remember.”

“What do you mean?” He leans in. 

“I remember it both ways,” she whispers. “I remember the way you said it happened, but... I also remember the way they say it happened.”

“No,” Scott says, this time leaning his chair all the way back on two legs. “That don’t make sense. Why would you remember it different from me?”

“Maybe we are right. Maybe they are all right,” she says carefully, “and what you remember is wrong. I don’t know. But if we ever want to get out of here, any of us, we have to be... not crazy.”

“What if I’m right?” he presses. “And they’re wrong?”

“Then I still want out. And the way is the same.” She holds her hands up. “Don’t be crazy.”

“So then I’m the crazy one.”

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head at him. “I’m no doctor.”

“But then you’re just gonna pretend like none of it happened,” he growls. “Like you don’t remember nothin’.”

“What good would it do?” she insists.

“Rachel still needs us!” he says. “Homer-”

“The only Homer here remembers nothing.” Suddenly, some of the word salad Scott has been saying about this ‘other’ me starts to click. Renata’s story, too. She’s supporting his delusion. _ It’s the same delusion. _Carbon monoxide at work again? This is getting more bizarre every day.

“Where’d our Homer go? You wonder about that at all?” 

“You said you remember everything,” Renata says softly. “So you remember the last thing he did.” The back of my neck prickles. 

“Yep,” Scott says, studying her. 

“He left us, Scott. He ran.”

“That ain’t how I remember it,” Scott says slowly. “He meant to come, Renata. I’m positive he did. Somethin’ went wrong.”

“He wanted to die,” she hisses. “He made sure we survived first. But that was all. He’s gone.”

“He wouldn’t do that to us,” he says, holding up a hand. “Not on purpose. He would never have lied to Rachel. Something went wrong.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he tried,” she says. “Maybe he didn’t have enough will to get here. Either way,” she says sharply. “He’s not here. We are. What do we do with that?”

He glances over in my direction. “Ever consider maybe that guy needs our help, too?”

“Let me know when he asks for it,” she snaps. “Until then, all I want is to get the hell out of this place. Whatever it is.”

“Is that what we came all this way for?” he asks. “To give up and pretend none of it ever happened?”

“I didn’t come here to be drugged and treated like a crazy person!” she retorts. “I want to live a life that’s not in a cage again someday.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t gonna choose to live like a dummy in a world where everything that I know happened ain’t true. And you think big doc’s gonna let you leave?”

“This place has rules,” she insists. “Outsiders. There are possibilities.”

“And you and me, we’re still just two crazy people in a cage.”

“It’s a clinic,” she says tightly.

“Clinic with _ locks_. Do I gotta remind you what happened last time someone tried to interfere with what he was doin’ to us? It ended with bullets, Renata. And what he did to OA-” He shakes his head. “Renata, you know how this works. Your guide-”

“My hallucination,” she clarifies.

He leans back, aghast. “Hallucination? Really? So we all had the same one. How's that even a thing?” He’s getting more heated now. Maybe I should intervene, but something keeps me frozen in place.

“Look,” she sighs. “If one story is true, I am crazy here. If the other is true, maybe I am not. I choose... not.”

He looks shell-shocked at this. “So then, you’re choosin’ to abandon us. Me and Rachel both,” he says. 

“What good does it do? Clinging to these things that everyone but us knows could not have happened?”

“He could still be here, somewhere-”

She scoffs. “And if he is? What do I owe him? I can forgive him, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sacrifice myself for him.”

“Then what about us?”

“You need to be healthy, too,” Renata says. “Maybe you should also live in the present. Maybe it would be easier.”

“You callin' me delusional?”

“Your doctors are,” she reminds him.

He laughs bitterly. “Look who our doctors are.”

“And besides you and me, who's going to believe that?”

“Fine,” he snaps. “I get it.”

“I’m sorry, Scott.” She spreads her hands. “I made my choice.”

“I hope you figure out what’s real and what’s not.”

“And I hope you can find your way out of here.”

He snorts. “Make that two of us.” He shakes his head and steps away. 

I close my notebook and leave the office to walk into the rec room. Renata sees me and looks away. Scott, on the other hand, comes right to me.

“You did this to her?” he demands. “Made Renata think she was crazy?”

“Scott-” I tense up. The syringe is still on my desk in the rec room. I glance over at Todd, who no doubt has one on him.

“I’m not tryin’ to be aggressive,” he says, holding his hands up, showing me they’re empty. He stares at me for a moment then scoffs, shaking his head, as he collapses at the table. “You really ain’t fakin’, are you.”

“Faking what?” I ask, sitting beside him.

He doesn’t hold back before jumping in. “This whole time I’ve been prayin’ that soon as he was off my case, you’d gimme that old sideways grin of yours, and wink at me, and let me know you had ‘em all fooled. Everyone, including me and Renata. Suckers. But you’d let me relax. Cause, you _ would _ do something like that, wouldn’t you? Just be a dick long enough to get me riled up. Knowin’ you was doin’ it for a greater good, and I couldn’t stay mad at you about it once I knew you were back on my side.” He shakes his head at me. “But you ain’t that good a liar.”

“I’m not lying to you, Scott.”

“I know,” he says, staring across the room at the fishtank. “I just wish you were.”

“Scott-” But he stands up and walks away from me. Which he can do. It’s his choice. We’re not in session. He’s on free time. I can’t force him to talk to me.

I’m left at the table by myself, watching Scott and Renata both turn their backs to me, each for their own reasons. 

I watch them from behind and try to reconcile what I just heard. In their shared reality, for some reason they both feel like I rejected them.

What I can’t figure out is why I suddenly feel like the one who’s been rejected. I can't understand why it hurts. And I can't understand why I suddenly don't want to see Scott go to Langley Porter, even if everyone agrees it's for the best. 


	4. Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth and reality collide for Scott and for Dr. Roberts.

I stand up as Scott walks into the office for our session. “Good morning.”

He folds his arms and collapses into the seat, scowling and looking away from me. “Not really.”

There’s a lot to process here, including what he and Renata talked about yesterday, but this seems like a good place to start for today, so I open my notebook. “You want to tell me more?”

“Well, I decided I’m gonna talk to you,” he says reluctantly.

“I’m glad,” I say. “What changed your mind?”

“No one else to talk to. Gotta talk to someone long as I’m here.”

I offer a smile, but he doesn’t return it. “Well, I’ll take it. Anything in particular you want to start with?”

“You ask Hap about that transfer yet?”

“You mean Dr. Percy?”

“Yeah. Him.”

“I’m planning to discuss it soon.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” he says.

“He’s open to it. If it’s what you really want. If it’s what’s best for you.”

“Like hell he is,” Scott snorts. “God, he’s really got you fooled.”

“Let’s talk about that,” I say, leaning forward.

He shakes his head and looks out the window. “I still know you, you know. Even right now. You’re pretending like you might believe me, tryin’ to act like you care what I’m telling you, but you don’t. You think I’m batshit cray.”

“Well,” I say carefully, “I don’t think ‘batshit cray’ is in the DSM-5, and I am a clinician after all.”

Scott grins only briefly at my attempt at humor before his face falls. “I don’t get it,” he says. “You act just like him. You look… identical. I mean, not exactly. The beard is new, and you clearly ain’t starving - don’t take that the wrong way, I’m happy for you, you got it a lot better than him. But you’re him. Right down to that same fuckin’ freckle right there on your left cheek.”

“Let’s start there,” I say. “We made a deal, remember?”

He shakes his head. “You want me to be honest.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to put everything out there, so you can tell me how crazy I am.”

“I told you, I don’t like that word, but yes, I want you to put everything out there, Scott. What will it take for you to feel safe?”

“I feel safe,” he says. “I just don’t see the point.”

“Well, try me,” I say. “Why don’t you see the point?”

“No one ever listens to a crusty like me.”

“Crusty?” I echo. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” he says. “Gutter punk? Street rat? Runaway?”

“I know what that means, Scott,” I say. “It’s just that you’ve never been any of those things.”

“No shit?” He stares at me. “You’re really not pulling my leg.”

I have to keep him focused on telling me his thoughts so I can unpack them. “You keep saying you know me. Another me. Tell me more about that.”

He settles back on the sofa with resignation. “He’s you,” he says. “Homer Roberts. But don’t worry, I figured it out by now. I know it ain’t you.”

“So, me, but thinner and less hairy? I’m intrigued.” I try to smile.

“It ain’t funny,” Scott retorts. “And he’s plenty hairy.”

“I’m not laughing,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry if you thought that. Tell me about him. Your… Homer.”

Scott licks his lips. “He ain’t mine, he’d probably die a little to hear himself called that…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “You got no idea how hard it is to look at someone who used to care about you, someone you know inside out, and it’s like they stare right through you.”

“Do you feel like I’m rejecting you?” I ask carefully.

He rolls his eyes and continues. “And then they sit there and ply you with useless shit phrases like ‘do you feel like I’m rejecting you,’ meanwhile all any normal person would think about is what happened to the person you cared about, and where the fuck are they if they ain’t here.” He rubs his eyes.

“You said you cared about him,” I start slowly.

“Well, I’d never tell him that, he’d give me hell for it,” Scott says with a slight smirk. “Look, him and me, we spent a lot of time together. We hated each other and we fought with each other and at the end of the day, I’d die for that dude. And yeah. It’s been creepin’ me the fuck out to see you lookin’ out of his eyes with that blank clinician face on.”

I try to relax my face. Maybe I should be a little more engaged. “When was the last time you remember seeing him?” I ask gently. I want to understand more about what he and Renata were thinking in their conversation yesterday.

“Just before that carbon monoxide,” he says without hesitation.

“Was he in the rec room?”

“Nope,” Scott says confidently. “None of us were.”

I make a note on my pad. “Do you remember any of the time you and I spent together here before that?”

“Here? Honestly, no,” Scott says. “You said you want the real truth? I don’t. I never saw you - this version of you - before I heard that alarm.”

The amnesia. “You’ve been inpatient here for almost eight weeks now.”

“That’s a long time,” he says. I nod in agreement. “What do you think is really wrong with me?”

I try not to show any reaction to this, but I let loose with an inner fist pump. He’s questioning his reality. “Well, you lose your sense of reality from time to time.”

“And you’re positive that’s what’s happening now.”

“What do you think is happening now?”

He leans forward. “I think we’re both extremely confused.” He fixes me with a look. “And I think you gotta be in there, man. ”

“Scott, I’m not sure I can give you what you want.”

“But you want me to trust you,” he presses.

“You can,” I assure him.”

He leans back, shaking his head. “Not like I used to.”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not your captor.”

“No!” he snaps. “You’re still a prisoner here, just like me and the girls, except you woke up on the wrong side of the cage, or maybe more like the right one for a change, and you suddenly forgot all about it. You’re lookin’ at me like I’m the crazy one, but you’re the one actin’ like Judas.”

I close my notebook. “You’re getting upset. Maybe we should stop for the day.”

“You wanted the truth, right? I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just please, god, please, tell me I’m not alone.”

I lean forward. “You’re not. I’m going to do everything I can to help you. I promise.”

“That’s a lie,” he says, his voice shaking.

“I swear, Scott-”

He jumps up and paces to the window, then turns around to face me. “Nothin’ I say is getting through to you! You think I’m a lunatic.”

“There are no judgments here, Scott,” I assure him. He’s getting agitated. Maybe I need to end the session. Or maybe we need to push through this.

He sniffs at me. “You already decided I’m crazy.”

“I’m here to listen. Not to judge.”

“Then listen to this,” he says. “How do you explain me and Renata rememberin’ the same shit?”

“I believe that you believe,” I say patiently, opening my notebook again. “Our work here operates with an understanding and respect for the collective unconscious. We recognize that there’s more to dreams and psychosis and the connection between them than the physical world can explain.And I believe it’s possible that you and Renata share a common influence that we haven’t figured out yet.”

He stares off, shaking his head. “And you don’t think it’s even remotely possible that influence could be somethin’ like another level of reality? That what I’m sayin’ could be true?”

“It’s not my job to say what is and isn’t possible. Only to help you cope enough to function independently.”

He laughs bitterly. “Which means you gotta convince me it ain’t true.”

“I’m here to help you tease out the underlying truth. Help you cope with the reality in front of us. The one you can see. You see me as an ally, along with the other patients. That’s good. It shows you know deep down that you should trust me.” I take a deep breath. “How would you feel about adjusting some of your medication?” I ask, tapping my pen on the notebook.

He shakes his head. “Let me save you the trouble. Ain’t no pill in the world that’s gonna be enough to change my mind.”

“I agree,” I say. “Therapy is also an important-”

“Fuck therapy!” Scott shouts. “Fuck your pills! I’m crazy, and I know it, but not about this.” His face is turning red, and a vein in his neck looks suspiciously tense. “I know what I know, and far as I’m concerned, you’re the one who needs therapy.” He stares at me. “I mean, you really don’t remember none of it?”

“Honestly, no. I don’t,” I say, trying to project calm to bring him back down. “But your Homer and I do have something in common besides a freckle.” I try to lean forward with as much compassion as I can. I meet his eyes. “I care about you too. I want to help you. I want you to trust me.”

“Can you help them two?” he asks, still studying me. “The girls. Renata and Rachel.”

“Of course I will.”

“Maybe you ain’t payin’ attention, but they’re terrified of him. They might not be as outspoken as me, but whether you believe me or not, all of us need your help.”

“Rachel’s fine,” I say. “She’s at vocational therapy with Dr. Percy this morning, as a matter of fact.”

“What?” he asks, sitting up straight.

“She’s helping with Dr. Percy’s lab work.”

His face goes white. “When did that start?”

“Today.”

“That’s why she looked so scared at breakfast,” he says slowly. “She’s all alone with him, and she can’t even ask for help?”

“Sometimes she gets anxious about things,” I assure him. “That’s not unusual. We always help her work through it.”

“Maybe she needs a break,” Scott says, looking back up. “She had it rough this week.”

“Everyone here wants to help her.”

“Not necessarily,” he mutters. There. The delusion poking through again.

“What do you mean?” I want to see if I can draw more of his state of mind out of him.

“When’s she back?” he presses, consciously avoiding my question. “Do we have group today?”

“No, your only session today is individual.”

“Rec time?” he presses.

“You’ll have rec this afternoon. You’ll see Rachel there.”

“Thanks, man,” he says, sounding resigned.

“She’s fine, Scott. I promise you. I’m worried about Rachel just as much as you are.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Fuckin’ PTSD.”

“What?”

He looks up, and his face is stricken. “This. All of it. Bein’ around you and her, not bein’ able to talk to either of y’all, this all feels just like it did in the beginning, which was the worst part of all of it. Living nightmare.”

More word salad, but at least now I’m starting to understand more of what he’s saying and the drama that’s playing out in his mind. “Do you feel like you’re living a nightmare?”

“I know it’s crazy, since this place is like a luxury hotel compared to that. But it’s worse. Cause you and Rachel , y’all were always were a team, you know? I mean, you don’t. But she was your shadow. She loved you.” He’s tearing up now. “And you just - that you could even-” He can’t get the words out. He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“You were going to be honest with me, remember?”

“I think I’m all done being honest for today.”

“All right.” He’s given me enough to digest. “More honesty tomorrow, then?”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m going to change your meds for tonight, if that’s okay.”

He smirks. “Go right ahead. Whatever you want.”

“It’s going to be okay, Scott. I promise.”

“You gonna put all those notes in when I transfer?”

“There are experts at Langley Porter who can help you. Maybe more than me.”

“No one is gonna help me more than you,” he says. “But if you ain’t gonna help, there ain’t no point in stayin’ here.”

For once, Scott and I agree on something. Whatever the root of his delusions about me, it doesn't seem like anything I'm doing is helping.

***

It’s Tuesday afternoon, which means that Leslie, the art therapist, is in the rec room. She wanders back and forth between the tables of the patients who are participating, offering smiles and gentle suggestions and asking delicate questions. Given the confusing disaster that was this morning’s session, I’m positioned in the office at the observation window before Scott arrives.

Scott slides into the chair beside Rachel, just a few feet away from me, and she smiles at him. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile all week.

He asks her a question. The only word I can make out is “vocational therapy” and I stiffen. She looks pained, but she shakes her head and reaches out to touch his arm, like she’s assuring him of something.

“Since when are they besties?” Shweta asks from the corner of the office where she’s working on her own notes. “Wait. Don’t tell me.”

“Sudden friendship isn’t a side effect of carbon monoxide poisoning,” I recite, pointing back at her, and she actually laughs.

“It could be, though,” she says thoughtfully, holding a finger in the air. “Maybe something about the oxygen deprivation triggering, like, a fight or flight response? Resulting in an intense bond?”

“Keep working on that theory,” I say, and she sniffs at me.

I look back to Scott as he reaches for a blank sheet of paper and a box of crayons. Rachel had been poking at a pile of play-dough, but now she turns to watch what he’s drawing.

At one point he glances at her, almost with a question, but she stares back at him, daring him to continue. He looks away, reaches for the red crayon, and bends back to his work.

When he’s finished, he slides the paper to her. She spreads her hands out over it. She looks like she’s going to cry. I move closer to the window so that I can see what’s happening.

It looks like a child’s drawing. A road, trees, and a red backpack. I don’t know what it means, but I probably should.

I stand up, leave the office and head into the rec room. “That’s a nice picture, Scott,” I offer from behind him as I approach.

He whirls around, registers my presence, and then deliberately turns his back on me. “Fuck off.”

“This isn’t a therapy session. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Bet you’d love to tell me your theories, though,” he says, with a bit of an edge to his tone.

I shrug. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He’s already drawing something else. Straight lines, one after the other. He closes them into a pentagon, then passes the blank shape to Rachel and watches to see what she’ll do.

She reaches for a green crayon, then roughly scribbles on the pentagon. She passes it back to him. He sighs heavily, a mixture of frustration and appreciation.

“What’s that?” I ask politely.

“If you have to ask,” he says in a dry tone, “You don’t wanna know.” He shoves it back at me. “Here. Go analyze that.”

I can take a hint, and I exit the room. Shweta looks up as I come back into the office. “Picasso got a masterpiece going on yet?”

“Let’s just hope no one plans on cutting off their ear this week.”

She grins and peers at the drawing with some interest. “Why did he draw a picture of the fishtank?”

“Oh, yeah,” I note. I trace the lines with my finger. “I think you’re right. Weird.”

I settle back at the window to watch, dropping the fishtank scribble on the chair beside me. Scott is talking softly to Rachel now, but he’s close enough to the window that I can hear most of it.

“Why are you goin’ along with it? You know how to fight. Throw a fit. Show ‘em you don’t wanna go.” I stiffen, but continue to listen. I want to hear the full delusion before I decide how to intervene. But Scott is staring at her. “You do wanna go. Jesus, why? Surely you ain’t that bored.” Both of them find this funny for some reason. Scott stares at her as his grin fades. “Naw, I’m feelin’ you. There’s somethin’ else you’re fixated on. Look, don’t feel like you gotta keep an eye on him, you got bigger problems.” He studies her, but she still looks at him blankly.

Scott suddenly drops his crayon on the table and draws back. “You’re helping him cause you have to.” He looks more closely at her. “He told you something. If you make a scene, he’ll hurt… no, that ain’t enough, you’re worried about someone else. Me and her? Fuckin’ Roberts? Dammit, fuck this dimension!” He’s getting upset now, and Rachel stands and crosses to the window, touching the glass. “Yeah,” he says. “I know, but I’d trade every drop of that to have him, and her, and your voice all back.” He shakes his head. “Can you even believe me right now? When did I turn into such a fuckin’ loser? God!”

“He’s agitated,” Shweta says from beside me. I look up. “Your patient, Doctor Roberts.”

“You’re right,” I say with a sigh. I heave myself back into the rec room. “Scott,” I say as I approach him.

He refuses to look at me. Rachel does look at me, shakes her head, and walks away.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“Do I have to?”

“Right now?” I ask. “I’d strongly prefer it if you did.”

With a sigh, he follows me back into the hall and we walk back to his cell. I leave the door open and we both linger inside.

“Help me understand.”

“You report everything I say back to him, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to,” I say.

“Really?”

It’s a dodge, and he seems to sense it, but it’s getting us somewhere. “Look, if it will help build trust, we can go off the record. Just you and me.”

“No notes,” he says.

“Nothing. Scott. Help me understand what you’re experiencing.”

“You don’t feel it, just a little bit? That he’s totally BS’ing you? That somethin’ about him changed that day?”

“I just want to understand what’s real for you,” I say gently.

“If I tell you everything, you’re gonna think I’m crazy. I mean, I know you already do. But the truth…” He sighs. “The truth is worse.”

“Some people say that believing that you’re going crazy is actually a sign of your own sanity.”

He nods slowly, staring at the wall. “You people study dreams, right?”

“Yes. Are you having confusing dreams?”

He takes a deep breath, laughing. “It feels like I been in one for a real long time.”

“Maybe you have. If so, it’s okay. We can find your way back together.”

He shakes his head in frustration. “No dream.”

“Okay. So tell me what it is.”

“He’s a nightmare. Percy. I’m telling you. He ain’t who you think he is. Not anymore. Not since that day I attacked him.”

“Something changed in him, after you attacked him?”

“Before. Right before. Something changed in all of us. Except you, for some reason.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know!” he bursts out. “You don’t think you changed at all that day? Not even a little?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It was a rough day for everyone. Me included.”

“But you went to sleep the same way you woke up. None of the rest of us did.” He points at me. “And that includes Percy, whether he’s gonna admit it to you or not.” He sighs. “I know this sounds insane. That we came here from a parallel universe. That your director ain’t who you thought he was. If I could prove it to you, I would.”

“I think you should get some rest-”

His face tights. “You fuckin’ asshole.”

“Scott…”

“You still don’t believe me!” he bursts out. “I just told you the truth. What’s really goin’ on. Why there’s no proof, and why there won’t ever be, and you still think I’m nuts.”

“I didn’t say that-”

But he turns around, silent. The conversation is over, and I have nothing else to ply him with.


	5. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shweta gets a little too involved for Homer's taste. Scott and Homer have an honest chat.

"The couch is for patients, Homer. Are you here for handoff, or treatment?" 

Shweta turns around from the desk to regard me coolly as I collapse on the resident office sofa.

"Do I get a choice?" I rub my fingers over my eyes. 

"Depends on my assessment of your case. At first glance, I’d say you look like you need treatment more than handoff right now."

I snap and point at her from my prone position. "That's what makes you such a good clinician, Dr. Singh. Your keen powers of observation."

Shweta is not amused by me. "My patient roster is full. So let’s just get through tonight’s list, and then you can go call a doctor of your own."

I drop my hand. "How about five minutes on your couch?"

"You know that's not enough. Is it Brown again?”

“I’ve been thinking about him all day,” I admit.

Shweta closes her laptop and turns around fully, leaning forward. “Me, too,” she confesses.

“Really?” I ask. I’m a little thrown by her sudden sincerity.

“Really.” She leans forward. “Okay. Can we do a thought experiment? Let's pretend for a second that he's not delusional.”

I sigh heavily. “Go on.”

“Isn't all of his behavior entirely rational? He's not like the paranoids, trying to get help from anyone who will listen, or like the manics, trying to convince you."

I’ve been through all of this with Dr. Percy already. “Except he also thinks he's from a parallel universe where Percy’s a super-villain."

"But he never _ leads _ with that." She draws the word out as though it means something.

“Shweta.”

“His stories are internally consistent,” she points out. “At least the ones he’s told you. He’s living another reality, but no amount of logic or reason or medication is cracking him, is it?”

“Then what are you saying?”

She leans forward. “What if Scott Brown is perfectly sane?”

“So what, you think he’s a Rosenhan patient? Testing our system for weaknesses?”

“No, Homer.” She tilts her chin down. “That is not what I’m saying.”

I close my eyes. "You're seriously contemplating the reality of a patient's delusions? Shweta." I open them. "Let me give you a hint. He's in inpatient treatment. That should be your first clue."

“You think this is a typical case presentation?”

“It’s just countertransference, dressed up in a new outfit,” I start to explain, but before I can go on, a knock sounds on the door. 

“There you two are,” Dr. Percy says as he sticks his head in.

“We’re doing handoff,” Shweta says, picking up her tablet pointedly, like a kid who got caught with her hand in the candy jar. 

But he’s studying me, as usual, as I struggle to sit up. “I’ve got two extra sets of tickets to the fundraising gala next week, and I’d like for both of you to attend. Rub some shoulders with the donors. Show them the importance of training the future professionals of the field. It’s Wednesday night, and you’ll be at my table.”

“We’ll be there,” Shweta says. “Jas and I can get a sitter.” She shoots me an expectant look.

“Great,” he says. “I’ll put a pair under each of your names.”

“Don’t waste a pair on me,” I say, apologetically, returning Shweta’s look. “I mean, I’ll be there, of course,” I add hastily, “but I only need one.”

Dr. Percy fixes me with a hard stare. “You don’t have anyone special in your life?”

“I’m busy,” I point out. 

“Homer. I know residency is tough, but you’re young. Now is the time to live. Figure out the rest of your life while you still can.”

“I’ll get around to it, I promise,” I say with an awkward laugh.

“I’ll get him on Tinder,” Shweta offers, and I shoot a glare in her direction.

“Find someone by Wednesday,” Percy says. “That’s an order.” He winks at me. “Two for you both, then.”

He closes the door. “I am not bringing a Tinder date to the Melanu gala,” I protest to Shweta.

She shrugs. “Defy him at your own risk.”

“Now you sound like Darmi.”

She picks her tablet back up. “So you were saying you talked to Percy about whether Scott might be sane?”

“We’ve talked more about Scott than any patient on the roster lately.”

“Maybe I should try with him, then.”

I frown. “Shweta...”

“It’s less personal with me. I’m not part of the delusion. But look. Percy’s treatment works because our psychotic patients here have broken down the walls between the dreaming and waking world. As far as I can tell, Scott has no walls. He’s not getting any better, but I don’t even know if a transfer to Langley Porter will help.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“I have supervision with Percy tomorrow. Let me give it a go. And Homer?”

“What?”

“Give me that phone. I’m setting up your Tinder profile before I leave.”

It’s not worth the effort to fight both her and Percy. I don’t stand a chance. I shrug and toss it at her. “No weirdos, okay?”

She bounces with glee. “You’re getting a date for this gala, Dr. Roberts.”

“You are way too excited about this. Leave the phone on the desk when you’re done.”

I pace the dormitory hallway. It’s late, most of the patients are sleeping. The lights are off, creating that dim and eerie stillness that’s intended to promote calm. I can’t imagine ever having to stay in a place like this. We do the best we can, but there’s only so much we can do.

As I pass Scott’s door, I see something moving in the shadows. I stop and peer in.

He’s standing with his back to the door, doing some kind of strange dance. It almost looks like tai chi, but I’ve done tai chi, and this isn’t it. I can’t quite tell what he’s doing, but I’m drawn to it. He stretches and bends, twists and gasps, hisses and hops as he moves, alone in his cell.

After I’ve been watching him for a couple of minutes, I realize that he’s repeating the same sequence of choreography. But it’s not choreography like anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s beautiful, desperate, compelling. 

Whatever he’s doing, he’s _ feeling_. And in a way I can’t explain, so am I.

I don’t know why his dance affects me the way it does. It feels primal and strange, yet poetic in its strangeness. He’s tapping into something, I just don’t know what. 

Dr. Percy’s theories center on insanity as the border of reality. Scott is insane, but for a moment, it almost seems like he’s pulling something into existence that feels _ more than _real...

No. I shake my head, amazed at myself for even contemplating a thought like that. That’s exactly what would land me in a place like this at night.

He stops and whirls around suddenly, realizing my presence. His face looks white. He says nothing.

I motion to the door, asking permission to come in. He steps back and nods, looking weary.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I step into his room. “I didn’t mean to stare. That was beautiful. What was it?”

“If you have to ask,” he says with a sigh as he settles onto the bed, “it didn’t work.”

“What were you trying to do?” I grab the chair across from him, flip it around, and straddle it from behind.

“Fix everything,” he says. “Bring you back. I dunno. We were always sparse on the particulars, and I never expected it to work. But to get this close, and then…” He shakes his head and looks down at his lap. “You put in for that transfer for me yet?” 

“Haven’t had a chance-”

“Take it off your list,” he says. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Scott.”

“I said I’m good,” he snaps.

I lean forward. “Is it because of what you and Rachel talked about?” He’s silent. “I admire you, you know.”

His head shoots up. “What?” he asks with a suspicious laugh.

“Your dedication. For Rachel and Renata. For the person you think I am.”

He scoffs. “You admire the crazy guy.” The truly crazy ones never admit to it. I have to push Shweta’s suggestions out of my head. She doesn’t know better than Dr. Percy. 

“Given the way you see the world,” I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, “You’re the hero in it.”

“But I ain’t supposed to be!” he bursts out. “That’s the biggest irony in all this.” He fingers the edge of his blanket. “It was you, man. It was always supposed to be you.” He shakes his head sadly.

“Even if I can’t be who you want me to be,” I say. “I still want to help you, Scott.” I hesitate. “Maybe, tomorrow, you can tell me more about him.”

“Who?”

“Your Homer.”

“I’ll tell you right now. Whatcha wanna know?” He leans back on the bed and studies me, trying to figure out my intentions. 

“I have to go soon-”

He cuts me off, seeing right through my act. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit tomorrow in session. You wanna know, ask now.”

I nod slowly. I’ve got to work within his boundaries if I want to break through them. “You trust him,” I offer as a guess.

“Yep,” he says without hesitation. 

His confidence shakes me for some reason. It pierces my defenses. I didn’t expect it. I want to ask _ why him, and not me_? Maybe this is the way to break down his walls. “Why?” is all I ask.

Scott stares up at the ceiling, a faint grin on his face. “He’d do anything for me. For _ us_. And he did. All the time. Never asked him to. That’s how he rolled. Even when I treated him like shit, he was still there.”

“What did he do?” I press.

Scott raises his eyebrows and looks at me. “Put himself through hell and back. Actual hell. I wanted nothin’ to do with it, and still he threw himself in there, over and over, never once said a sideways word about it. I didn’t think my own life was worth a damn.” He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Homer Roberts did.”

“I do think your life is worth saving, Scott,” I say gently. Maybe we can try-

I can’t even finish the thought before he’s scowling deeply at me again. “Call me when you’re willing to put yours on the line for it. Cause _ he _ did.”

“To save you from Dr. Percy,” I say slowly, trying to manage my skepticism.

“You wonder why Percy shaved that beard?” he asks casually.

“Maybe he was ready for a change.”

“Maybe.” His eyes glaze over a bit as he stares off. “My Homer? He hated growing a beard. Said it made him feel like his grandpa.”

“That’s funny,” I say, rubbing my beard. “I like looking like my grandpa.”

He doesn’t seem fazed by this. “Yeah, cause you never got kidnapped. My Homer wanted his family to recognize him, if they ever saw his picture somewhere.”

“That’s heartbreaking.” It’s also oddly specific.

“Guess so,” he mutters. He rubs his own beard and shakes his head, scowling.

“You keep talking about being kidnapped,” I say carefully. “Was it a lot like this?” I gesture my hand around at his room.

He shakes his head. “More light here. Nice views.” He smirks. “Better food.”

“Really?” I can’t even contain my surprise at that. Melanu is not exactly known for its food services.

“Hundred percent. Mac and crack Tuesdays? That stuff’s the shit.”

The wheels turn in my head, trying to process what he’s saying. It’s not entirely insane. “You like Miss Tracie’s Tuesday tuna casserole?” I ask carefully. 

“I could eat that shit all week.”

“I could tell her you’re a fan,” I suggest. “She’s been known to keep leftovers.”

“Mac and crack Wednesdays?” Scott asks, brightening. 

“Just don’t call it that around the other patients. Some of them are in recovery, you know,” I admonish him, and he laughs, and we’re laughing together, like old friends, like people who share jokes, like two dudes who trust each other.

“Bet your ass,” he says. “Thanks, doc.”

“There’s more to life than tuna casserole, though,” I point out seriously. “Freedom. Choices.”

“I can’t remember what any of that feels like,” he murmurs.

“This isn’t the goal. You know that. This is supposed to be a tool, to help you get back to normal.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “It’s a waste of time.”

“You’re not a waste of my time, Scott. Never.”

“No. You’re a waste of mine.”

“You have to go back to your life someday.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it."

“When you’re ready.”

“All right.”

“You will be. Someday. If I’m doing my job.”

“Look,” he sighs. “I ain’t gonna dispute your notion that I got shit to process. I got baggage for days. But, Jesus, you’re lookin’ in the wrong trunk.”

“Are you religious?” I ask him suddenly.

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“‘Not really’? Do you believe in God?”

He’s silent for a long moment. “I believe in something.”

“Christianity?”

“Organized religion is people’s way of making sense of stuff that don’t make sense,” he mutters. 

“Maybe you could use some of that right now.” I pause, licking my lips. “I heard you praying, you know.”

“What?” he asks.

“With Rachel. The night she wouldn’t calm down.”

He stiffens. “Thought that was private.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. We did need to watch, though.”

“To make sure I didn't take advantage.”

I shrug cautiously. “She wouldn't be able to speak up if you did.”

“Well, good.”

“Good?” I echo in surprise.

“I ain't gonna hurt her. You saw that. But somebody else could. Someone should always keep an eye on her.” He waves a finger at me, admonishing me. “Y’all better keep watchin’ her.”

“You care about her deeply.”

“She still believes in God,” he agrees. “Praying makes her feel better.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask carefully. He’s right that Rachel comes from a religious family, but I’d be hard pressed to ascribe any beliefs to her in her current state.

He looks away, toward the window. “You're the one who always used to pray with her. Every night. That was y'all's thing. I just did it to tell her that even if you forgot about it, I ain’t gonna. And that made her feel better. You saw it calmed her down. Got her to sleep. Got her some peace in this shithole.” He shakes his head. “But it still should have been you.”

“I can’t do that for her. But I’m glad you can.”

“You wanna know more about my Homer?” he asks suddenly, his head snapping back to me. “And what we believe in? Fine. I didn’t know how long he was gonna last when he first turned up. There were a lot of others, you know, early on. They couldn’t last.” He shakes his head sadly. “They didn’t make it. And there you were, just this scared little kid, lookin’ like he done plucked you off a football field and popped you in his terrarium. Right away I figured you weren’t gonna make it. First conversation we ever had, let’s see, how long was it?” He dangles a finger in the air. “I know wasn’t right away. Probably a week or two.”

I lean back on the chair, listening. It’s not word salad this time. Far from it. It’s rational and thoughtful. He’s making a lot of sense - at least, from his reality. For a moment, I can even see what he’s describing, a younger version of me, trembling in captivity with no one to talk to but Scott Brown. 

“Those first days, you didn’t wanna talk to us. Like you was too good for us. Maybe you were scared of me. Finally we got to talkin’ about whether we knew anything about what he was doin’. And I remember, this is the part I always remember, cause you shook me, you really did. You asked me: did I think bad things ever happened to good people? And I said no. I really said that.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “Guess I believed it then. I said to you that I knew I wasn’t a good person, for sure. And then you said you agreed. You didn’t tell me why. Took me awhile to figure it out, but that was the first thing we ever bonded over, you and me. We both thought we were pieces of shit. We thought we deserved to have our lives taken away and be caged up like dogs. We thought it was right.” He shakes his head in disgust.

“Do you still feel that way?” I ask, not wanting him to stop talking. Something about his story is triggering something deep in me. 

“Naw. Something changed.” He shoots me a sideways look. “For both of us.”

“Why do you think your Homer felt that way?”

“That girl you knocked up.” I try not to react at that. It’s too close to home, as if he knows something he shouldn’t. _ Safari and Chrome. _ Except… “You told her some shit. Some real bad shit. You didn’t take it well at first. You left on bad terms, and then you were gonna try to make up for it, but Hap got you first. You thought what happened was karma for what you done. You didn’t change your mind until-” He cuts himself off, putting his fingers to his mouth to stop the words.

“Until what?” I prod.

“No.” He gives me a canny look. “No, you ain’t earned that. I’ll tell you what I believe now, though. I think we was bein’ tested. All of us. You and me most of all, maybe. Put through hell to see what we was made of. I found strength I didn’t know was in me. And you.” He chuckles. “You’re a damn good dude when it all comes down to it, you know. You had your fuck ups, more than once. But I know what you’re made of. I know who you are when everything else is stripped away and you got nothin’ but your soul laid bare. You’re the guy who saved my life, in ways you wouldn’t even begin to understand now. Ways I still can’t really understand.”

“I see,” I say slowly. He’s describing someone who could have been me, that much is true.

“That’s why I don’t want to go somewhere else. You want to call me crazy, sure. I’ll stay here. I’ll keep my crazy. Because this is where I belong. With you, and Renata, and Rachel. All of us under Dr. Percy’s thumb. You included. This is the life I’m used to.” He shakes his head. "It’s okay, I don’t want to leave none of y’all.”

“But if you could get better-?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

He studies me thoughtfully. “How long can I stay here, if I don’t?”

“Long as you need to.”

“I can live with that.”

“I just wish you could trust me,” I burst out. “Like you trusted the other Homer. Let me help you, Scott.”

“He was sincere,” Scott says thoughtfully. “You’re sort of like him that way, you know. At first it bugged the crap out of me. He was such a fucking sap sometimes. Gullible and weak. But over time he was... I dunno, he was _ my _ sap. He cared about me. And that dude didn’t go halfway when he felt something. All or nothing with him.” He studies me, cautious. “Does that sound like you at all?”

I’m not the one having an unscheduled therapy session, but right now it’s hard to remember that. “Sometimes, maybe.”

He shrugs. “You wound up a shrink and he wound up a lab rat, but both of you wound up stuck with me. That’s the fuckin’ hilarious part. Hey,” he says suddenly. “You happy with your life? What you done with it?”

“Of course,” I say. “I find a lot of joy in helping people.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “You always did have that savior complex.” He pauses and chews his lip for a moment before continuing. “So, like you seein’ anybody, or…?”

I cough at that. “I’m sorry, Scott. I prefer not to bring my personal life into the clinic.”

“Right,” he says, his smirk coming back. “Wouldn’t want to get too close with the patients.”

“It’s not that, it’s about professionalism. And privacy.”

“So, you’re single,” he says, satisfied. “Good.”

Part of me sincerely wants to vent to him about Dr. Percy and Shweta and the Tinder date, but I don’t want to engage him in analysis of me, not to mention it would be a violation of professional ethics, so I have to put it back on him again and call the question. “Do you think you could ever trust me the way you trusted your Homer?”

“Not sure,” he says.

“What do you think it would take?” He’s silent. “I could be sincere and gullible,” I assure him. “If it would help you trust me.”

“You could be a little less gullible,” he says, and suddenly we’re both laughing, though I suspect it’s for different reasons.

“What would I have to do to take his place?” I ask. “You want me to shave my beard?” I’m only sort of joking, but it sobers him.

He looks closely at me. “It ain’t your face. You can look just like him, but you ain’t. You ain’t!” he says, again, raising his voice. “He believed for me. You won’t. That’s the difference.”

“I’m trying to help you, Scott. Look. Why don’t we talk tomorrow in session?”

“Fuck your sessions,” he says, shaking his head. “I can tell you right now, I ain’t changin’ my mind. No matter what you do. I know what I know. I know what I believe.” 

“I believe in you, Scott. I believe you can find your way back.”

“You don’t believe in shit,” he says, drawling out each word. 

“Scott-”

“You said you had to leave,” he says, turning his back on me and reaching for his blankets to arrange them. “We can talk tomorrow in session. Like you wanted.”

“Scott.”

“Look.” He whirls around. “I spent eight years smellin’ your shit, man. Literally. I was downstream from you. But you never stunk so bad as you do right now.”

“Scott-”

“Thanks for the tuna casserole tip. You’ve helped me enormously.” He can’t contain the sarcasm in his words.

“Scott…”

“Good night,” he says, “_Doctor _ Roberts.”

Outside his room, I stop and lean against the wall. I know the cameras can see me, but I don’t want to face Shweta yet, either, with her Tinder meddling and crazy theories. And I really don’t want to see Dr. Percy right now.

I’m struck by the sudden realization that Scott is somehow trying to treat _ me_. He thinks I’m the crazy one. Would Shweta agree?

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am too gullible. I stand, take a deep breath, and head for the office to see what Shweta’s managed to do for my dating pool. At least that’s a problem I can solve easily. 


	6. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Roberts makes a choice.

“Rain check? XO.”

Stood up. I drop the phone back on the table with a quick check of the time. We’re supposed to leave for the gala in twenty minutes. I’m dressed in my residency interview suit, which is about the only thing I own that’s remotely appropriate for the Melanu Foundation’s premiere annual fundraising event. There’s a hole in the pocket, but since I don’t have a date, hopefully no one will notice.

A knock sounds at the door. “Come in?” I ask, shoving my hand in my pocket and standing to greet Dr. Percy. It’s not him. It’s Darmi.

“Hey. Do you have time to check on Brown?”

I rise to my feet, reaching for the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Carmen thinks he’s tripping on his meds. She wants you to take a look.”

I haven’t ordered new meds for him in weeks, but that’s a less pressing concern. “Where is he?” The gala, my nonexistent date, and my pathetic lack of a social life are forgotten. 

“Cafeteria.”

“Thanks, Darmi.”

She looks me up and down as we start for the cafeteria. “Wow. Nice suit.”

“I clean up okay once in awhile.” I shove my phone in my pocket and self-consciously feel for the hole.

“Pity Dr. Percy won’t upgrade the dress code,” she notes.

“You’d have to worry if he did,” I say, eyeing her tattoos in return, and she snorts.

The cafeteria is mostly empty, the early dinner rush is ending. But Scott is sitting at a table staring off into space, slack-jawed, in front of a full tray of food. Darmi starts to follow me in, but I gesture subtly to shoo her off and out of the room. The fewer people here, the better.

“August can... stay,” Scott says, his words slurring heavily. 

“How are you feeling, Scott?” I ask gently, ignoring his non sequitur, settling down in front of him. Darmi and Carmen are right. I can tell immediately from his facial expression and body language that he’s currently what could be referred to, non-clinically, as tripping balls. 

“Good,” he slurs. “Real... good.”

“Scott.”

“Everything’s fine,” he says, trying to over-enunciate. “I like it here. I’ll... be good.” His eyes are unfocused, glazed over, and he’s speaking as if his tongue has doubled in size.

“He hasn’t touched his food,” Carmen says quietly from the corner.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask him, settling my hands between us on the table. 

“Should be,” he says, forcing each word out. “Never enough… this place, just keeps comin’...”

I scoot back from the table and move over to Carmen, feeling Scott’s eyes listing at me the whole way. “Has he been like this?”

“Since his afternoon meds kicked in,” she confirms. 

“He hasn’t reacted like this before, has he?”

“It’s the new scrip.”

I blink at her. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Dr. Percy put an order in this morning. He’s on chlorpromazine now.”

What the…? We almost never prescribe that here. “Scott?” I call over to him. He doesn’t respond. “Scott.” He continues to stare into space. “Are you ignoring me on purpose?”

“Real good at ignorin’ you. How else d’you think... got through those years with you, ‘thout goin’-?” He winces, as if in pain.

I look back at Carmen. “Doesn’t seem like his delusions have gone away.”

“Right,” Scott says, his voice still slurring. “I forgot. You think I’m…” He twirls a finger beside his ear. “Should be givin’ you more grief, fuckin’-“ His eyes glaze over and he stares off into space again.

“Is that an absence seizure?” I whisper to Carmen, alarmed. 

“He’s been doing that all afternoon.”

“Scott,” I say, approaching him again. “Scott.” He blinks, and he’s back with me. “Did Dr. Percy see you this morning?”

“No,” he says abruptly, the clearest he’s been. “Ain’t seen him.” 

“That’s not true. He visited this morning,” Carmen whispers. “In his room.”

“That’s when he changed his scrips?”

“Yeah.”

I open my phone to pull up Scott’s record. Sure enough, Dr. Percy ordered a med change this morning for some inexplicable reason. I was here, with other patients. Why wouldn’t he consult me? I look for any progress notes documenting why. Nothing.

I tuck the phone back in my jacket pocket. “I’ll talk to him,” I say. “I don’t understand what he’s doing, but I’ll figure it out.”

“This ain’t right, Dr. Roberts,” Carmen says in a low tone. “It’s too much for anyone. Especially him.”

“I agree,” I say, checking down my list. “Memory loss, dystonia, slurred speech, possible absence seizures. Dr. Percy must have had a good reason. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Nooo,” Scott whines. I hadn’t realized he could hear us. “No. If doc says-” The words are getting harder for him to get out.

“I’m your doctor, Scott,” I say gently. “I’ll figure this out.”

“Hap knows what’s best,” he says dully. “I’m... good boy.”

I approach him carefully, sitting down across from him again. “Scott. Tell me who Hap is.”

“Percy. ‘S name is Dr. Percy… I know.”

I lean forward, trying to project my most trustworthy demeanor. I don’t want to take too much advantage of Scott’s current state, but I’m curious what he’ll say right now. “Why do you keep calling him Hap?”

“No such thing as Hap,” he says, looking away. “Don’t… problems, don’t get in the way…”

“What do you mean, Scott? Problems for who?”

“No one!” he shouts at me, but he can’t even get those words out without slurring.

He’s making even less sense than usual. “Let me know if anything gets worse,” I say to Carmen, and head back to Dr. Percy’s office. Darmi is back at her desk.

“Is he upstairs?” I ask brusquely.

“Nope, he already left for the gala.”

Right. The gala. The reason I’m currently being choked by a suit that’s probably at least one size too small, with a hole in the pocket. “Do you know anything about these new orders for Scott? He didn’t discuss it with me, and there’s no notes from this morning when he put them in.”

Darmi frowns. “Did he even see him today? It wasn’t on the schedule.”

“Carmen said he did,” I say. “But Scott is saying he didn’t.” I’m pretty sure I know which one of the two of them to believe right now. 

“Let’s check the video log,” Darmi says. I approach her desk as she clicks on the computer, then shakes her head. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“Scott’s feed has been shot since... yesterday.”

“It went down?”

“Looks like.”

“What about the angle outside his room?”

She squints at the screen and shakes her head. “That one’s down, too. Sorry.”

“All right,” I say. “It’s fine. Thanks for checking.” I’ll have to find Dr. Percy at the gala. Almost on cue, my phone buzzes with a new WhatsApp notification from Shweta. 

“Outside in 5.”

I hurry back down the hall to the cafeteria. Scott is poking at the food on his tray, but he stops and looks away when he sees me. I slide back into the seat across the table from him and lean forward. 

“I’m sorry, Scott,” I say, as truthfully as I can. “I really am. This is not what we’re trying to do to you, and I know it won’t help you get better. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

His mouth hangs open, a crumb of bread stuck to his lip. His eyes try to focus on me. “No,” he manages to croak.

“Keep a one to one on him,” I say to Carmen decisively, who nods in agreement. 

The sun is sinking over the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance as I step outside the front entrance of Melanu. Across the bay, in the distance, I can spot the pier where the gala is already starting. I could practically swim there if I tried. 

My eyes settle on Coit Tower on the horizon. I remember staring out from there the day after the carbon monoxide incident. The day I made my vow to help Scott Brown. After all this time, I’m still no closer to understanding why he exploded that day. I don’t know the first thing about how to help him. I don’t understand where his delusions are coming from, or why nothing is working. Now he’s drugged into a stupor beyond recognition, with a risk of permanent damage, and I don’t even understand why. I feel a pang of something deep inside that I can’t place. 

A silver SUV tears up to the entrance and lurches to a halt in front of me, Shweta gesturing impatiently from the front passenger seat.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say to Jas as I climb in.

“Of course,” he says. The man is remarkably calm and polite compared to his wife. I’m sure he has to be for the marriage to work.

I hold up a Transformer. “Just throw it on the carseat,” Shweta says impatiently, and I comply.

I lean forward as we pull out of the clinic and amble down the road for the bridge. “So. Something’s wrong with Scott,” I say carefully.

“Yes,” she agrees brightly. “He’s a patient in a mental hospital.”

“Did Percy say anything to you about changing his meds?”

“Why would he?” she asks. “He’s your patient.”

I lick my lips and press on. “Has he ever modified orders for one of your patients without telling you?”

“All the time,” she says. “He’s the director, he does what he has to.”

“Do you know why some of the patients have started calling him Hap?”

She twists around to look at me with a serious, interested expression. “You noticed that, too?”

“Scott called him Hap, then said something like ‘there’s no such thing as Hap’.”

“Funny you say that,” Shweta says slowly. “I saw him sign that last week.”

“Dr. Percy?”

“Yeah. On a note. I think his middle initial is ‘A’,” she says, then laughs. “You know he’d never tell us what it stands for.”

“Hunter A. Percy,” I say slowly, sounding it out. “H. A. P.” I’ve only ever seen him sign his first and last initial.

Shweta nods, taking it in. “When did Scott start calling him that, anyway?”

“He doesn’t, usually,” I say. “I heard him say it once to Renata. Caught him doing it once or twice in session. You think they saw him write those initials somewhere?”

“Then why would Scott say ‘there’s no such thing as Hap’, if he knows ‘HAP’ is Dr. Percy?”

“You’re asking me to translate delusions,” I say with a snort. “We could be here all night.”

“Is your date meeting us there?”

I open and then close my mouth. I stare out the window, defeated. “No,” is all I say before I fall silent.

Shweta forces Jas to drop me off at the front of the pier before they park, insisting that I need to go talk to Dr. Percy immediately about the ticket situation. I emerge into the sky lounge, and it’s like I’m entering another world, one that I don’t really belong in. I’ll fit in well enough in my basic suit, but there are tuxes and dresses circling around me that probably could be sold for something around the cost of my annual salary.

Dr. Percy is mingling with a group of important-looking men near the entrance and I approach him with my most apologetic face on. “Sorry, sir,” I say. “My extra ticket is still available.”

He frowns, looking at my suit with disapproval. I finger the pocket hole. “Homer. We can’t have an extra seat at our table. We’re up front.”

“I tried, but-”

“It’s all right,” he says, clapping me on the back uncharacteristically. “You aren’t the only one who showed up stag. We’ll do some juggling. Lucky for you, that opens up a pair at our table, so that means the Stevensons can be bumped over, and you’ll just have to sit with someone else.”

“All right,” I say, trying to swallow my anxiety.

“In fact, there he is now,” Dr. Percy says, waving. “Pierre!” I turn, feeling something drop in the pit of my stomach.

Pierre Ruskin, the notorious technological prophet of the Valley, looks decidedly like a kid in a grown-up’s costume for the night as he approaches us, perhaps even more so than me, but Dr. Percy isn’t going to call him out on it, and his suit is probably worth a lot more than mine. “I found someone for your extra ticket. Let me go talk to Diamond about the seating arrangements, I want you to meet my resident-”

“Dr. Roberts,” he says. “I remember.”

“Of course,” Dr. Percy says, clapping him on the back with familiarity before stalking off.

“My fiancée had to go overseas unexpectedly,” Pierre says, apologetically. I’m not sure why he’s apologizing to me. “Death in the family. I was hoping she would return by now, but…” He shrugs, as though death is a mere inconvenience to the nuances of gala ticketing for the obnoxiously wealthy.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say politely, although I’m fairly sure I haven’t met Pierre’s notorious fiancée.

“So, is it a date, Dr. Roberts?” Pierre asks, giving me a subtle smile. 

I try to laugh. I’m not sure how much he’s kidding, and the clinic needs his financing. A drop in the bucket to him is an entire department’s salary line to us. “If your fiancée won’t object.”

“What Nina doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

“Our secret, then,” I say, though I can feel my heart rate intensify. The last thing I want is to spend the evening with creepy Pierre Ruskin, constantly feeling for the hole in the pocket of my pants.

“I wouldn’t miss this event, of course,” Pierre continues. “Supporting the clinic is the least I could do, after all that Dr. Percy’s done for me and my work.”

Good. Hopefully that means I can’t destroy his generosity with my social awkwardness. “Thank you,” I say automatically, “for your support of Melanu.”

“No need for formalities,” Pierre says with a shrug. “Tell you what. Why don’t we go find our seats, and I’ll see about getting us some drinks. Let’s at least make this night less painful for the both of us.” It’s the first thing he’s said that causes me to smile, and we head into the gala.

Our seats are at a prime table near the stage. I can see the staff still rushing to rearrange name cards even as we walk in. Pierre heads to the bar and returns alarmingly quickly with two glasses of scotch that I’m pretty sure are far beyond what I would have been able to afford on my own. I look away awkwardly as Jasdeep and Shweta join us with Coca-Colas in hand. Pierre doesn’t offer them the same luxury. I suppose he’s taking this “date” seriously.

“Did you get a chance to ask Dr. Percy about Scott?” Shweta whispers to me, leaning around Jas. 

“Not yet. He’s too busy setting me up with the prophet of the valley,” I hiss back.

“Should’ve brought the Tinder date.”

“I tried!” 

“Can I try to match you?” She reaches for my phone.

“God, no.” I yank it back away from her.

Pierre looks over with interest. I hadn’t realized he was in hearing distance. “People are still using Tinder?”

“Why?” I ask, suddenly feeling my face flush. “What would you recommend?”

“It just seems so… impersonal.” He shudders.

“How did you meet your fiancée?” I ask dutifully.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket. The case practically gleams with money as he swipes at it. He pulls up a picture of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman. She’s familiar. I was right that I haven't met her, but I’ve seen her at the clinic. I’m relatively sure she’s visited Dr. Percy’s office. Still, I’m struck by her picture in a way I never was before. I realize he’s still talking and I’ve missed it. “-all over, after that.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Shweta says politely.

“Something like that,” Pierre says. He shuts the phone off and I blink. The image of his fiancée is still burned into my eyes. Like she’s staring into my soul for some reason. “She’s a doctor too, you know. PhD, from the Sorbonne.”

“Wow,” Shweta says, and I realize we’re supposed to be impressed by this. Shweta, who has an MD/PhD from Stanford, is doing a decent job of faking it. I try to nod politely. Maybe I should have gone to the Sorbonne. Maybe I should try Tinder again.

“I’m no doctor myself, of course, which is why I require the help of so many others to fully realize my ideas. Has Dr. Percy spoken with you about your post-residency career path?” Pierre asks, and the question is aimed at me, not Shweta. 

“I’m interested in a staff role at Melanu, and Dr. Percy has said-,” I say, but Pierre is shaking his head.

“Melanu is small potatoes. Even for Hunter. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“What’s the big potato?” Shweta asks. I think she realizes she’s not the target of this conversation, but she can’t resist asking anyway.

“Have you considered research?”

“It would be a shame to waste such excellent clinical skills on research,” a voice from behind me says, and I turn to see Dr. Percy walking up, scotch in hand to match ours. I want to ask him about Scott, but first we have to get through the pleasantries.

“I’m interested in research,” I point out.

“So am I,” Shweta says.

Dr. Percy glances from her to me and back to the prophet. “Unfortunately not something that fits in their current curriculum at the moment, Pierre.” 

“Yes, but someday-” I nod emphatically at Pierre’s words, looking to Dr. Percy for agreement, but he’s shaking his head at something unsaid. “Well. I’m sorry to the both of you if my work has deprived of your chance to experience the best of what Hunter here can do. Maybe we should bring you to Syzygy for-”

“Goodness, no,” Dr. Percy says, cutting him off. “Pierre. Please. These are my best residents.”

“And you don’t want them to see-?”

“I don’t want to be brought up on charges by their program,” he says with a laugh. “Let me stick to the core curriculum with them for the time being, if you don’t mind.” 

“Can I talk to you in private a sec?” I ask Dr. Percy, sensing that we’ve gotten through the initial pleasantries, and probably far beyond what’s appropriate.

“Of course.” He glances to Pierre and Shweta and then pulls me away. “Sorry. I know Ruskin can be unorthodox-”

“It’s fine,” I say hurriedly. “I wanted to ask about your new orders for Scott Brown. Why did you put him on chlorpromazine? The side effects-”

Dr. Percy sighs and shifts his weight reluctantly. “Ah.” He lowers his voice and leans closer to me. 

“He’s still on lithium and clozapine.”

“You understand that it’s standard of care for excessively dangerous patients.”

“Not for ours, though."

“He’s not a typical patient for us.”

“Okay, but I don’t think-”

He cuts me off sharply. “You need to understand that he almost killed me that day, Homer.” 

A chill washes over me at his words. “What?” I manage to ask faintly.

He shakes his head. “Look. I wasn’t going to show you the medical reports. I didn’t want you to be disturbed by it. But you need to fully realize what you’re dealing with here. Scott Brown is easily capable of murder - for reasons we still don’t understand - and in all your treatment with him since that day, you haven’t done a thing to address the underlying delusions that brought him to that point. Chlorpromazine is not inappropriate. Safety comes first.”

I take a step back, processing all of this. “Wait. What happened when you visited him today?”

He’s blinking at me. “I didn’t visit him.”

“Before you put the change in?”

“It was just an order based on his chart, Homer. Nothing else.”

“Carmen said-”

“Carmen?” He shakes his head. “She must have been confused by the note. Did Scott say I saw him?”

“No,” I admit. 

“I think he and I would both know.”

“You should examine him. Tonight if you can. He’s dystonic, and seizing. We need to find something different.”

Dr. Percy frowns. “We’ll see how he does on this cocktail as he adjusts, but the next step to consider might be ECT, and we should be sure before we go that route. Let’s discuss next week.”

“Are we at that point?” I ask. I catch myself wringing my hands out of nerves and try to shake them out.

“Look,” Dr. Percy says. “Go through the motions if you must. But don’t lose sight of what we’re dealing with. I’ve seen far too many of these cases and I know how they end, I’m sad to say.”

“Right,” I say slowly. He shakes his head, gives me a sad smile, and starts across the room after Pierre Ruskin. 

Electroconvulsive therapy. Nothing about Scott’s case seemed that severe when he first came to us. I thought we could help him. I didn’t expect him to deteriorate. What are we doing wrong?

Shweta is at my side, swishing her coca-cola. “That’s a pretty intense cocktail. Even for Scott. When was the last time Dr. Percy prescribed chlorpromazine? The whole point of Melanu is treating acute patients without the thorazine shuffle.”

“Scott tried to murder him,” I whisper.

“I remember,” she says. “Weren’t you there?”

“I didn’t realize how serious it was until just now. Scott’s my patient, why didn’t he tell me?”

“I don’t think you’re asking the right questions here, Homer," Shweta says quietly.

My head shoots up. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m only saying. A lot of this doesn’t add up. Dr. Percy’s changes in medication. The fact that he’s been cancelling supervision left and right since that day. Not just with you, with me. And the fact that Scott Brown and Renata Duarte have the exact same delusion.”

“Right. She picked it up from him,” I point out. “But she’s coming around.”

“Can we play the Occam’s Razor game for just a second?”

“No,” I say, taking a step back and staring at her. “Shweta."

“I’m only-”

“You’ve got to be out of your mind.”

“How would patients know his middle initial?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Out of twenty-six?”

“He signs things with his initials sometimes. A patient must have seen it."

She presses on. “Scott and Renata are genuinely afraid of Dr. Percy. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it.”

“It’s transference,” I say, shaking my head. “Nothing new. We’ve talked about this. Look, Shweta. You want to play Occam’s Razor? Then don’t land on the explanation where the delusional patients are right about our director being a villain from another dimension.”

“I’m not saying it’s definitely true. I’m only-”

“You’re starting to sound as crazy as them!”

She shushes me. I realize my voice was growing loud enough to carry. “I’m not crazy. Something about Dr. Percy is off lately. You see it, too. Have you read the OT reports? Rachel and Scott both suffered significant loss to their fine motor function after the carbon monoxide.”

“Brain damage,” I say, staring at her.

“Really? You weren’t affected. You should have been the most affected, you were the only one who lost consciousness, and it didn’t affect you.”

“Shweta,” I say, putting a hand to my heart, “are you saying all those times you called me an idiot, you didn’t mean it? I’m touched.”

She shakes her head, pushing past my attempt at humor. “I’m serious, Homer. They’re acting like people who haven’t touched a pencil or a fork in years. They can’t be faking that.”

“Then why not Renata?”

She sighs with frustration. “I don’t know.”

“Their delusions make for compelling stories, but they’re delusions. You said it yourself. Everything Scott has brought up, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it.” 

“I did a session with Renata yesterday. She kept telling me there are two realities.” 

“Right. She knows one of them is false.” 

Shweta squints at me. “Does she, though?” 

“What did she tell you?” 

“That she wants to get out of here. I think she’ll do anything to get there. Including lie to us.” She takes a deep breath. “Renata told me something. She said she thinks he’s not really a psychiatrist. That he’s trained in anesthesiology.”

I heave a sigh. “Shweta-”

“Doesn’t it track?”

“I don’t know. I’m not an anesthesiologist.” And neither is Dr. Percy, though I don’t want to cut off her ranting right now to challenge her reality. She’s starting to sound more like a patient, and less like a psychiatrist.

“Yeah, well, Jas is. And it tracks. These new meds. The syringes. The fact that he’s avoiding supervision with us.” She’s starting to act like the manics, trying to convince me. I look around for Jas. “What’s wrong? Are you scared that I could be right?”

“Look,” I say. “He almost got killed by a patient. I was at risk, too. Maybe that’s why both of us are taking this more seriously than you seem to."

“Homer-”

“Shweta, stop. Just stop. Before you say something both of us are going to regret.”

She shakes her head at me, catches her husband’s eye across the room, swishes her Coca-Cola again, and starts off. 

For all our tension and natural opposition, Shweta and I have at least publicly supported each other since intern year. I don’t know why she’s suddenly seizing on these ideas. I wander out onto the balcony and stare up at Coit Tower, listening for the screaming of the parrots in the night, but they’re too far away.

Can I help Scott get better and avoid ECT? Not if I lose my own mind. Not if I let Shweta get lost in hers. 

This is what I know is true. 

I have to help Scott. I need Dr. Percy to do that. I need him to trust me, and I need to show that I deserve his trust.

My eyes drift over to Dr. Percy, who’s talking to the Stevensons. I approach with caution, dreading what I know I have to do next. 

“That may be true, Jeremy, but-”

“Dr. Percy?” I ask urgently. He turns to me, trying to hide his look of impatience. I take a deep breath before saying the words I don’t want to say, but that I know that I have to if I have any hope of making all of this better.

“We need to talk."

"Oh?" he asks.

I nod, steeling myself. "About Shweta.”


	7. Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's really helping who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER!
> 
> Shameless plug: If you’re reading this, it could mean that you’re interested in stories that continue the beautifully rich but unfinished narrative of Zal Batmanglij and Brit Marling’s The OA. Monday, May 25, 2020 will also mark the premiere of the first installment of Invisible River, the ambitious fan-made mini-series from Fleeting Films which, like this story, was inspired by The OA. It also may feature a cameo (or two, or three, give or take) from this author, as well as numerous others who have been inspired by the show. Check out Invisible River at https://www.youtube.com/fleetingfilms.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door. “Renata?”

She’s lying in her bed when I walk in, eyes open, staring blankly at nothing on the ceiling.

I clap my hands and try to feign enthusiasm. “Can I walk you to dinner? It’s on my way.”

She closes her eyes.

“Scott’s back from the hospital,” I offer. I hope this will comfort her, maybe excite her. “We’ll have evening group together later. I know you were worried about him.”

“I didn’t say that,” she says curtly.

“No,” I say, wondering if I’ve said something I shouldn’t. “I could tell.”

She stiffens at that. “I don’t want to see him,” she says softly. “I’d like to stay in here tonight. If that’s all right.”

I know a recalcitrant patient when I see one. It happens. She doesn’t seem to want attention, which means that’s what I need to give her right now, as delicately as I can. “Can we talk about it?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Is there anything you need?” I press. “You could come to the common room for some air, or-”

“I said,” she says, sitting up. “I’d like to be alone, Dr. Roberts. Please."

“Did something happen?” I crouch down, trying to meet her eye level. “With Scott?”

She looks down at her lap. “Everything has been so quiet.”

“While he was gone,” I finish for her. She gives a short nod. “I understand. But if there’s something you’re not telling me-”

“You know everything,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “His stories.”

“The other life,” I say, and her head bobs in agreement again. “Renata, you know that’s not real. You told me yourself.”

“When I see him,” she says, her voice fading, “I forget, sometimes.”

“And that scares you.”

“Exactly,” she says curtly, still avoiding eye contact.

“We’ll work on that,” I offer. “That’s what we’re here to do together. Some days are easier. Some are harder.”

“Today is one of the hard ones,” she says. “And I don’t want to play with you today, Dr. Roberts. You have other patients. Please, take care of them, and leave me alone.”

“All right.” I rise to my feet. “What are you thinking about? Could you at least tell me that?”

She sighs heavily. “The things that could not have happened,” she says. Her eyes focus somewhere beyond me, over my shoulder. “Hot, wet nights on a veranda in Havana. A boy seeking solace, trembling in my arms. The last man I danced with.”

“That’s... evocative,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Poetic, even.”

“He was full of contradictions,” she says. She’s still somewhere far away. “So weak, and yet full of strength. Cursed and blessed, all at the same time. He was a brave man, and he was also a scared little boy. It makes perfect sense that he could be both here, and not.”

“Are... you talking about me?” I bob my head, trying to get back into her line of sight.

Her neck snaps and she looks at me for the first time. “I couldn’t be, could I?”

“When was the last time you were in Havana?” I prompt gently.

“I don’t-”

“You were twelve,” I remind her.

“I was twelve,” she repeats, matching my tone.

I nod, encouraging her. “Keep reminding yourself of that. Every time you have these intrusive thoughts. You know the truth.”

“Yes,” she says faintly. 

“Maybe later we can talk about it?”

“Later,” she agrees, still not making eye contact with me. I straighten up and walk out of the room, but for some reason, I can’t walk away from Renata’s words.

They echo in my mind throughout my supervision session with Dr. Percy. 

The shelf behind him is lined with statues of deities from every culture and religion imaginable. Buddha, Ganesh, Christ, the sphinx. Dr. Percy told me once that he didn’t necessarily believe in any of them, but since someone did, that was enough for him to revere all of them. His deep respect for multiculturalism and his openness to different beliefs was one of the first things that drew me to him when we first met. I hadn’t met many people like that in Missouri. 

_ Hot, wet nights on a veranda in Havana... _

“Did the discharge paperwork say anything about Scott’s delusions?” Dr. Percy is asking. I blink and straighten up.

“It sounds like he didn’t say much while he was there,” I say, flipping to his file on my tablet. “I’m curious to see what he’ll tell me, now that he’s back. I think he didn’t trust them very much.” It’s a highly atypical case presentation, and I know Dr. Percy will understand that. 

“Look,” Dr. Percy says with a heavy sigh. “You can’t follow a normal course of treatment with this level of delusional transference.”

“Then what do I do?” I ask, uncertain.

“You’ve got to burst his bubble.”

“And let him down?” I finger my ring. 

“Give him a reality check. If he still thinks you’re with him? Yes.”

“He doesn’t, though,” I press. “It’s hard to explain…” I stare off at the bay out the window, searching for Coit Tower and the parrots. Who’s really dealing with transference now? “Maybe he’s more grounded than I’ve made it sound. He does know who I am. That I’m not who he wants me to be. That’s been consistent, across every medication we’ve tried.”

“But he’s hoping for more,” Dr. Percy presses. “He’s not getting any better. Look. If you want to switch his meds back now, be my guest. I’m not married to Clozaril.”

I blink at this, trying to disguise my reaction to his words. “What you said at the gala, about ECT-?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Could be sooner rather than later, though.”

“You really think that’s indicated? For Scott?”

“A schizophrenic, disturbed patient with increasing violence and pervasive delusions about his own treatment?” He tilts his head down to stare at me.

“It’s a single data point,” I press, leaning forward. “He hasn’t had another incident.” 

“It was a significant one.” He sighs, studying my reaction. “Your heart is in the right place. But you’re letting emotions get in the way.”

“I’m trying to be objective,” I insist. “But I’m trying to help him using the least restrictive means, like we always do. ECT should be a last resort.” 

“Of course. But we’re getting closer to that point every day. You’ve got to get him aligned with reality now. Before someone else gets hurt. Or worse.”

I blink and in that instant, I see Dr. Percy’s face reddening, eyes bulging out, Scott struggling to choke him out. He intended to kill him. He might have, if he was luckier. “I know.” 

_The last man I danced with... _

“_All _ of them. You’ve got to shatter their delusions. Do you understand? This has gone on long enough. They’re only egging each other on. You’ve got their group tonight, right?”

I nod. “It’s my next meeting.”

“Well,” he says. “This is the perfect opportunity, isn’t it? Don’t let Scott’s charm keep you from seeing the danger he poses. The rest of them, too. You can’t let your feelings get in the way of objective patient care.”

“Right.” 

He studies me carefully. “Homer, does any of this make you uncomfortable?"

I think for a moment before responding. “All of it,” I admit. “This whole narrative. The fact that I’m at the center of it. For all of them. I can handle transference, but this is more unsettling than usual.”

He leans forward. “I need you at your best,” he stresses.

“I know,” I say. “You can trust me with this. I promise.”

“Good,” he says, leaning back. “Because there’s a lot happening tonight. A new patient arrived earlier. V.I.P. You remember Pierre from the gala,” he says casually, like Pierre was some rando at our table, as opposed to one of the leading tech entrepreneurs of my generation.

I gasp. “Did he-?”

“No, not him,” Dr. Percy says hurriedly. “His fiancee. Had a bit of a break, I’m afraid. Complete amnesia as far as we can tell.” I have a brief flash of the face staring at me from Pierre’s phone, that haughty, beautiful blonde woman who shook me to my core. _ Here_. I feel myself flush and immediately look down. I don’t want Dr. Percy to see. We aren’t supposed to have that reaction to pictures of patients.

“He did say she had a death in the family,” I muse.

Dr. Percy raises his eyebrows with a shrug. “Yes. Could explain it.”

“Should I review anything on her?” 

“That’s all right,” he says. “I’ve started looking over her file, and I’m particularly concerned. You know my work with her and Pierre funds half the staff lines here at the clinic. This one’s personal.” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’ll be handling her case personally, but I’ll need your help, especially with getting her settled in.”

_ A boy seeking solace, trembling in my arms... _

“Of course,” I say, straightening up. “Whatever you need. Just say the word.”

“That’ll be all. Oh,” he says as I start for the stairs. “You might want to say goodbye to Shweta.”

I stop in my tracks. “What?” 

“We’re reassigning her.” 

I swallow. “Because of what I said? At the gala?” 

He gives me a stern look. “You did what needed to be done. Go say your peace, and let Dr. Chen take it from here.”

I rush down the stairs, blowing past Darmi without a word. I burst through the door to the resident office and stop in my tracks. 

Shweta is zipping up a duffel bag and looks away from me sharply, avoiding eye contact. “I hope for your sake you’re right,” she says. “That I’m crazy.”

“Shweta…”

“It’s fine,” she says, brushing me off. “I get to sit at home for the next two weeks and get my own _ treatment. _” She spits the word out.

I want to say something. I want to ask her what she thinks about Dr. Percy calling clozapine “clozaril”, like a patient instead of a psychiatrist. Or an anesthesiologist. Or what she thinks of the treatment he’s recommending, and whether ECT is really indicated for Scott’s clinical presentation, and whether it’s appropriate to treat our primary donor’s fiancee. But I can’t say anything without looking like a fool now. All I can think of to say is one thing. “Shweta...” 

She straightens up. “I’m going to be under close monitoring with Chen when I get back.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t lose my position. Do you understand that? I have a kid. Jas and I have loans.” 

“You’re going to be okay,” I say, as reassuring as I can.

“I’m not a patient. Fuck you.”

“Shwet-”

But before I can get any further, she grabs the duffel bag and shoves her way past me and out the door. I watch her go with a heavy sigh and run a hand over my beard. 

_ Cursed and blessed, all at the same time... _

I look at the clock. I’m already five minutes late for group. I grab for my tablet and head for Scott’s room. 

As I spot him through the window, I feel an overwhelming rush of relief. Did I miss him? What would Dr. Percy say if he realized how I felt? My job is to be detached. Clinical. Patients leave. They heal. They worsen. They move on. 

I wish I could explain why Scott Brown affects me the way he does.

“Welcome back. How you feelin’?” I ask, casually as I can, as I stick my head into his room. He’s sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. 

“Better,” he says, his voice low and weak. “Hurts less.”

I move inside and close the door. “That dosage you got wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re doing the best _ you _ can.” It sounds strangely biting.

“I’m not giving up on you. No matter what you think.”

He scoffs and looks away.

“I wanted to ask you about something,” I say. “When you overdosed, you mentioned a name. August.”

“Did I?” he asks. He raises his eyebrows. “Weird.”

“What does that name mean to you?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Just someone I never expected to see again.” 

“Is August here?”

“No,” he says firmly. “Just like I didn’t spend years locked in a cage with you. Just like I don’t know Rachel’s life story, or every delusion Renata ever confessed to you.”

I suck in a breath, thinking back to my supervision with Dr. Percy earlier. “You didn’t talk about any of this at the hospital.”

He bursts out laughing. “Cause they’d think I was nuts. Just like you. But you were there.” I start to respond, but he cuts me off. “Look. I had a lot of time to think. I still don’t understand any of this. All I know is it happened, and you were there, and you need my help. I’m holdin’ on to that no matter what.”

This is why I missed him. How do you push that kind of loyalty away, even in a delusion? “Scott,” I say gently. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t want your help.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m aware. Am I gettin’ out of this room tonight?”

“If you’re up for group.”

He jumps to his feet. “Let’s go.”

When we enter the common room, Rachel’s face lights up the second she spots him, and I remember how I felt seeing him just a few minutes earlier. She does what I felt like doing and leaps to her feet and practically flies across the room, crushing herself against his chest. He holds his arms back for a tense moment, surprised, looking to me for permission. 

“This isn’t prison,” I say. “As long as everyone’s consenting.”

He relaxes and wraps his arms around her. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Hey. I was always comin’ back. What would you do without me, huh?” he murmurs gently. “If I gotta be locked up, might as well be with y’all.”

I gesture to the chairs. “We’re all glad you’re back. Ready to get started?”

Rachel pulls herself away from Scott and perches in a chair obediently. He folds his arms and waits. “Where’s Renata?”

“She won’t be joining us this evening.” I pull Rachel’s communication board out and hand it to her. She dangles it over the side of her lap, forgotten. “She’s not feeling well.”

“You can do that?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” I say. I sit down, gesturing again for him to pull up a chair. He’s silent. “Do you feel like leaving?”

He glances at Rachel, then reaches for a chair and collapses into it. “Naw.”

“I thought we could start by talking about your last day here,” I say. “There was some confusion on our end about how the med change happened. Both you and Dr. Percy said he never saw you that day, but nursing said he did."

Scott is quiet for a long moment. “Say I tell you he didn’t.” He stares at his hands. “That he’s right. It was just a medication error. Shit happens.” He glances up and looks at Rachel. “Maybe I tell you he did,” he continues. “What if I said he came and said I needed to keep my mouth shut or he’d do worse?” He leans forward. “Say I told you the only reason she agreed to vocational with him without a fight is cause he threatened us all.” He looks from me to Rachel. She looks down and doesn’t react. “You’d say I was delusional.”

“You think Dr. Percy wants to hurt you?”

“Naw,” he said. “That ain’t his style. He’ll spare you the pain if he can. He’s just gotta be the one in control all the time.”

“I believe you’re afraid,” I say. “And I know that’s real.”

“Oh, fuck you-” 

“I want to get to the bottom of this with you,” I insist. “Look at the evidence.” 

He snorts. “Get to the bottom of this, then. Everything Percy told you is the truth. He never talks to me. Never sees me. He’s a good guy. Just tryin’ to help.”

“You believe that?” I ask him skeptically. 

He shrugs. “Why not?”

_ So weak, and yet full of strength... _

“Good,” I say, making a note on my pad. “That’s progress. I’m proud of you.”

“That mean you’re gonna let me out of here soon?”

If I believed you, sure, I want to say. But I can’t say that. “If things stay stable, maybe.”

“I don’t wanna leave.” He folds his arms and leans back.

“Scott…” I shake my head. “You can’t spend the rest of your life like this. If you aren’t getting better, there are other treatments we might have to discuss. More intensive ones.” I pause, briefly, remembering what Dr. Percy says. It’s why I have to press on. “You have a life, waiting for you. You have to get back to it eventually.”

“Don’t want to,” he says, shaking his head. “’Member when you told me there was probably a ton of different timelines where you and me never met?”

“I don't,” I say quietly. Inside, my heart sinks. Even with the overdose, even with all the medication, he’s _ still _ clinging to these delusions. Nothing is working. Nothing will shake him from it.

“I wish I hadn't said what I did.”

“Remind me,” I prod gently. 

He gives a wry grin. “I wondered how hard it would be to get to one of ‘em.” He looks up at me. “I didn't mean it. And you _ knew _ I didn't mean it. It's what we did, me and you.” He stares at his window. “But now, it’s like, _ fuck_. Careful what you wish for.”

“We did meet, though.”

Scott looks down at his lap and wipes his eye hurriedly. “Crazy, huh?”

“You believe that's a coincidence then?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Can’t get away from you. No matter what I do.”

“Go figure.” I lick my lips. 

“You want to know the difference between you and him?” he asks suddenly. I straighten up. “My Homer, I mean? You asked me before.”

“Yeah?” I ask, trying not to appear too interested.

He leans forward. “That dude wore his heart on his sleeve. You, I ain’t sure you even got one.” My eyebrows shoot up in spite of myself. “I mean, you must,” he adds hastily. “But you never show it. Not to me, anyways. You’re shut down. You’re thinkin’ stuff you don’t want me to know.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say. “But it’s part of my job.”

“Yeah, well, I liked the other guy better.” He shakes his head and stares at me, his eyes hollow and intense. “Can’t you just lie to me, man? For five minutes? Tell me you’re here. That it’s going to be okay. That you remember. You and me both know it’s a lie, but it would make me feel better. Maybe the only thing that would.” He chokes back a soft chuckle, and suddenly it doesn’t seem like the completely unreasonable and inappropriate request that it is.

“What would you say to him if he were here? Your Homer, I mean,” I offer carefully.

“That I can’t do this without him,” he says quietly. He glances at Rachel.

“Say it to me.”

He’s silent for a few moments, and at first, I don’t think he’s going to take the bait, but then he does.

“All the times I told you to fuck off, I never meant it. You knew that. And if this is some it’s-a-wonderful-life bullshit, I’m ready for it to be done.” He laughs weakly. “If I knew that was gonna be the last time I ever saw you, last time I felt my own body, fucked up as it was… I always thought there’d be more comin’. I ain’t so sure no more. Not without you, Homer.”

“You can say goodbye to him, Scott. Say it to me.”

“He didn’t go nowhere,” he says quietly. 

“Scott-”

“You wanna know how I’m so sure I’m right?” he snaps. “You want the evidence?”

“Yes,” I say, straightening up. “That’s exactly what I want.”

He points a finger at me, and it feels like a physical jolt to my heart. “No one ever gave a shit about me. Not like you do.”

I shake my head. “I think you-”

“I _ know_,” he says firmly. “Even if you don’t.”

“He’s not here, Scott,” I say, just as firmly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Well. If I couldn’t have him here…” he trails off.

“At least you’ve got me?” I prompt. 

He shakes his head, still thinking. “I wish I didn’t have to fuckin’ _ look _ at you.” 

I feel something drop in my soul. This is why I’m not supposed to get attached. Because with an unstable patient, the love and hate can turn on a dime. Because if I take any of it personally, I have to take all of it personally. And-

“Can I go?” he asks softly. 

I blink, trying to come up with the right response.

“You said Renata-?” He hooks his thumb in the direction of the door, pressing me to release him.

“Yeah,” I say, finding my words. “You can leave, Scott.”

He jumps to his feet and exits without a word. 

_He was a brave man, and he was also a scared little boy..._

I shake my head and turn to Rachel, who has been looking down, poking gently at her communication board, a random series of silent taps. She looks up when she feels my attention and pushes the board away, rejected once again.

“I saw that,” I say. She fixes me with a glare and crosses her arms.

I lean forward. “You understand more than you want me to know, don’t you?” Her glare subsides, but she only stares at me blankly.

I set a packet of M&Ms on the table, just out of her reach. She looks at them and remains silent, leaning back in her chair and staring out the window.

“Not in a mood for sweets tonight?” I ask. She remains silent. “Fine. Then maybe you can listen.” She remains still. “I don’t know what to do, Rachel. I want to help him. And you.” I laugh gently. “I know I’m talking to you too much. I know it’s not helping.”

She closes her eyes and turns away from me. 

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s true.”

Her eyes flutter open, but she doesn’t look at me.

“When I look at you, or at Scott, I feel like I need to help you. It’s not like other patients. It’s more than that. I can almost see things the way he sees them. I get it. The world he talks about. The one where you and I are the people he cares about.” I lean forward. “I think… Jesus, maybe I _ want _ it to be true.”

Rachel turns and looks at me, and is that a question on her face?

I cough to cover up a laugh, and now I’m the one looking away. “I can’t believe I said that.” She’s still looking right at me, almost through me. “I want to believe there’s a world where you can sing. Where you and I are friends. Where Scott and I…” I can’t finish the thought. “I’m sorry. I’m saying too much.”

Rachel sits up and walks over to me. She crouches down next to my chair and her dark eyes gaze into mine. I can’t look away anymore. She’s pulling me into her soul. Like I can see into hers. 

The Rachel that Scott believes in, the one who’s trapped, is all that I can see when I look at her. It’s why I’ve hardly been able to look at her. I remember the first night after the carbon monoxide incident. Rachel throwing herself at him, clinging to him, sobbing. Their reunion minutes ago, finding comfort in each other in this situation that terrifies both of them so much.

No one’s ever needed me like Rachel and Scott need each other. Like Scott seems to need his Homer Roberts. 

I want that connection. I want to belong with them.

When Rachel looks at me, I _ feel _something. Something I haven’t felt in a long time, maybe ever. Something in my bones. Something I need. Something in me is crying out to respond to her. 

“I’ve crossed a line,” I murmur out loud, more to myself than to Rachel. “Listen, if you ever find a way to talk, you can’t…” But I’m starting to get lost in it myself now. 

“I don’t know how Scott knows the stuff he says,” I say. I finger my ring as I talk. 

“About the frog-gigging. About me.” I swallow. She looks at me, her head tilted down, brown eyes still fixed on me. I still want to trust her. I want her to listen. I need someone to listen to me.

“My mom died two years ago,” I continue. “Cancer. We knew it was coming. She told me not to come to the funeral. I had to take my Step 3, and she said that was more important than me being there.” I stare down at my lap. “I know how proud she was that I was becoming a doctor. And how embarrassed she was that none of us could afford a ticket from San Francisco to St. Louis on short notice. She knew that I would do anything she told me to.” I take a deep breath. “I didn’t go.” I swallow. I look up. She’s staring at my ring. “I don’t think my dad ever forgave me.” I rub my hands on my pants. 

“He would never say that. But we used to be close, and now?”

Rachel reaches out carefully to my hand and rubs at my football ring. I should stop her, but I can’t. It’s the most real human contact I’ve had in weeks, maybe months. Her light touch feels electric on my skin. 

“I feel alone. I’m in this bubble, cut off from the rest of the world. I’m analyzing everything around me, and I can’t even fucking analyze myself.” 

Rachel reaches up for my arm, and suddenly I realize how far I’ve crossed over the line. I yank my arm back. She backs off and folds her hands carefully in her lap. But her eyes are urging me to continue, and somehow, even though I shouldn’t, I feel safe to keep going. 

“It has to mean something. All of this. My work. All this isolation. I need to believe what I’m doing matters. And lately, it’s hard to remember that. I’m not helping you. I’m not helping Shweta. I’m not helping Scott. He was doing better before I took over. It’s me. I trigger him. The harder I try to pull him out of his reality, the harder he tries to pull me in.”

Rachel’s eyes are staring into me, deep into my soul, like she knows me. Like she believes what Scott tells her. I want to be what she’s seeing when she looks at me. I want to tell her everything.

“I have a purpose, and I have to believe that. I’m going to help Scott, like I helped Renata. You, too. These delusions he has, this community he’s trying to create, it’s not meaningless. It’s how we’re all going to get better.” I shake my head. “Even me. Because I need healing too, Rachel.”

It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud. 

“I can’t take care of the rest of you if I don’t say that out loud. Scott Brown may be the closest thing I’ve had to a real friend in the longest time. It’s the strangest thing...” There aren’t any words. I laugh gently and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I know this is too much talking for you.”

Rachel shakes her head and reaches to touch my arm, hesitantly at first, then with more conviction, reassuring me. Even if she doesn’t understand the words, she knows I need the contact. This time, I let her. 

“Dr. Roberts?” I jump back, startled. Did he see? No. Dr. Percy looks distracted as he enters the room, a file in hand. Rachel turns away.

“Do you need much more time for this session?” he asks, impatient.

“No,” I say, looking back at Rachel and her forgotten communication board. “I don’t think we do.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m ready to see the new patient. In fact, I’d like you to bring her here.”

I look up. “I think we’re done for tonight, Rachel. You can find your way back to your room.” She gives me a last look, and for a moment I feel like she’s pitying me before she turns to walk out.

“Is everything okay?” Dr. Percy asks me.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ve got everything under control here.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He smiles.

He still believes in me, because he doesn’t know my weakness. He doesn’t know how much I’m starting to lose my own grasp on reality. And I need him to believe. I want that even more than I need to belong. 

_It makes perfect sense that he could be both here, and not._

I walk down the brightly lit corridor, telling myself the things that I know are true. Reciting them over and over. Reminding myself.

I know what’s real and what’s not. I can’t let myself be carried away by the delusions around me. I can’t let myself be susceptible to my own failings. Not when Dr. Percy is counting on me. Not when the patients need me. Not when my purpose is to heal them and make them better. 

Not when I’m about to come face to face with the haunting, disturbed eyes of Nina Azarova.

I take a deep breath, and put my hand on the door. 

THE END

  
  



End file.
